THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


7  ' 


I 


POEMS   BY  JOHN   MASEFIELD 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NBW  YORK   •    BOSTON  •    CHICAGO   •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •   BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


POEMS 

BY 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 


SELECTED   BT 

HENRY  SEIDEL  CANBY,  PH.D. 

FREDERICK  ERASTUS  PIERCE,  PH.D. 

WILLARD   HIGLEY  DURHAM,   PH.D. 

OF  THK  DIPABTMENT  OF  KNSL.I8H,  TH*  SHBTTMLD 
SGIXKTiriO  SCHOOL,  TAiB  UKIVBB8ITT 


[PUBLISHED  WITH  THE  CONSENT  OF  ME.  MASEFIELD] 


Nefo  |f  otfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1917 

All  righU  r«4«n»d 


Copyright,  1911,  by  John  Masefield. 

Copyright,  1912,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 

Copyright,  1913,  by  Harper  and  Brothers  and  by  The 
Macmillan  Company. 

Copyright,  1914,  by  the  Century  Company,  by  the 
McClure  Publications,  and  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 

Copyright,  1915,  by  John  Masefield. 

Copyright,  1916,  by  John  Masefield. 


Nortooofi 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


College 
Library 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAQB 

^"A  CONSECRATION 1 

THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 3 

DAUBER 96 

BIOORAPHT .        .        .  258 

CARGOES 281 

,/SBA  FEVER 283 

SPANISH  WATERS 285 

AN  OLD  SONG  RE-SUNG 290 

,/THE  WEST  WIND 292 

/ON  MALVERN  HILL 295 

FRAGMENTS 297 

TBWKBBBURY  ROAD 301 

SONNETS  . 303 

^AUGUST,  1914 308 


A  CONSECRATION 

NOT  of  the  princes  and  prelates  with  periwigged  charioteers 
Riding  triumphantly  laurelled  to  lap  the  fat  of  the  years,  — 
Rather  the  scorned  —  the  rejected  —  the  men  hemmed  in 
with  the  spears; 

The  men  of  the  tattered  battalion  which  fights  till  it  dies, 
Dazed  with  the  dust  of  the  battle,  the  din  and  the  cries, 
The  men  with  the  broken  heads  and  the  blood  running  into 
their  eyes. 

Not  the  be-medalled  Commander,  beloved  of  the  throne, 
Riding  cock-horse  to  parade  when  the  bugles  are  blown, 
But  the  lads  who  carried  the  koppie  and  cannot  be  known. 

Not  the  ruler  for  me,  but  the  ranker,  the  tramp  of  the  road, 
The  slave  with  the  sack  on  his  shoulders  pricked  on  with  the 

goad, 
The  man  with  too  weighty  a  burden,  too  weary  a  load. 

The  sailor,  the  stoker  of  steamers,  the  man  with  the  clout, 
The  chantyman  bent  at  the  halliards  putting  a  tune  to  the 

shout, 
The  drowsy  man  at  the  wheel  and  the  tired  lookout. 

1 


2  SALT-WATER   BALLADS 

Others  may  sing  of  the  wine  and  the  wealth  and  the  mirth, 
The  portly  presence  of  potentates  goodly  in  girth ;  — 
Mine  be  the  dirt  and  the  dross,  the  dust  and  scum  of  the 
earth  ! 

THEIRS  be  the  music,  the  colour,  the  glory,  the  gold; 
Mine  be  a  handful  of  ashes,  a  mouthful  of  mould. 
Of  the  maimed,  of  the  halt  and  the  blind  in  the  rain  and  the 
cold  — 

Of  these  shall  my  songs  be  fashioned,  my  tales  be  told. 

AMEN. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

From  '41  to  '51 

I  was  my  folk's  contrary  son ; 

I  bit  my  father's  hand  right  through 

And  broke  my  mother's  heart  in  two. 

I  sometimes  go  without  my  dinner 

Now  that  I  know  the  times  I've  gi'n  her. 

From  '51  to  '61 

I  cut  my  teeth  and  took  to  fun. 

I  learned  what  not  to  be  afraid  of 

And  what  stuff  women's  lips  are  made  of; 

I  learned  with  what  a  rosy  feeling 

Good  ale  makes  floors  seem  like  the  ceiling, 

And  how  the  moon  gives  shiny  light 

To  lads  as  roll  home  singing  by't. 

3 


4  THE  EVERLASTING    M EEC T 

My  blood  did  leap,  my  flesh  did  revel, 
Saul  Kane  was  tokened  to  the  devil. 

From  '61  to  '67 
I  lived  in  disbelief  of  Heaven. 
I  drunk,  I  fought,  I  poached,  I  whored, 
t»    I  did  despite  unto  the  Lord. 

I  cursed,  'would  make  a  man  look  pale, 
And  nineteen  times  I  went  to  gaol. 

Now,  friends,  observe  and  look  upon  me, 
Mark  how  the  Lord  took  pity  on  me. 

> 

By  Dead  Man's  Thorn,  while  setting  wires, 

Who  should  come  up  but  Billy  Myers, 

A  friend  of  mine,  who  used  to  be 

As  black  a  sprig  of  hell  as  me, 

With  whom  I'd  planned,  to  save  encroachin', 

Which  fields  and  coverts  each  should  poach 

in. 
Now  when  he  saw  me  set  my  snare, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  5 

He  tells  me  "Get  to  hell  from  there. 
This  field  is  mine/'  he  says,  "by  right; 
If  you  poach  here,  there'll  be  a  fight. 
Out  now,"  he  says,  "and  leave  your  wire; 
It's  mine." 

"It  ain't." 

"You  put." 

"You  liar." 
"You  closhy  put." 
"You  bloody  liar." 
"This  is  my  field." 
"This  is  my  wire." 
"I'm  ruler  here." 
"You  ain't." 
"lam." 

"I'U  fight  you  for  it." 
"Right,  by  damn. 

Not  now,  though,  I've  a-sprained  my  thumb, 
We'll  fight  after  the  harvest  hum. 
And  Silas  Jones,  that  bookie  wide, 


6  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Will  make  a  purse  five  pounds  a  side." 
Those  were  the  words,  that  was  the  place 
By  which  God  brought  me  into  grace. 

On  Wood  Top  Field  the  peewits  go 
Mewing  and  wheeling  ever  so ; 
And  like  the  shaking  of  a  timbrel 
Cackles  the  laughter  of  the  whimbrel. 
In  the  old  quarry-pit  they  say 
Head-keeper  Pike  was  made  away. 
He  walks,  head-keeper  Pike,  for  harm, 
He  taps  the  windows  of  the  farm ; 
The  blood  drips  from  his  broken  chin, 
He  taps  and  begs  to  be  let  in. 
On  Wood  Top,  nights,  I've  shaked  to  hark 
The  peewits  wambling  in  the  dark 
Lest  in  the  dark  the  old  man  might 
Creep  up  to  me  to  beg  a  light. 

But  Wood  Top  grass  is  short  and  sweet 
And  springy  to  a  boxer's  feet ; 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  7 

At  harvest  hum  the  moon  so  bright 

Did  shine  on  Wood  Top  for  the  fight. 

\ 

When    Bill  was    stripped    down    to    his 

bends 

I  thought  how  long  we  two'd  been  friends, 
And  in  my  mind,  about  that  wire, 
I  thought  "  He's  right,  I  am  a  liar. 
As  sure  as  skilly's  made  in  prison 
The  right  to  poach  that  copse  is  his'n. 
I'll  have  no  luck  to-night,"  thinks  I. 
"I'm  fighting  to  defend  a  lie. 
And  this  moonshiny  evening's  fun 
Is  worse  than  aught  I've  ever  done." 
And  thinking  that  way  my  heart  bled  so 
I  almost  stept  to  Bill  and  said  so. 
And  now  Bill's  dead  I  would  be  glad 
If  I  could  only  think  I  had. 
But  no.     I  put  the  thought  away 
For  fear  of  what  my  friends  would  say. 


8  THE  EVERLASTING  MEECT 

They'd  backed  me,  see  ?     0  Lord,  the  sin 
Done  for  the  things  there's  money  in. 

The    stakes   were    drove,   the  ropes  were 

hitched, 

Into  the  ring  my  hat  I  pitched. 
My  corner  faced  the  Squire's  park 
Just  where  the  fir  trees  make  it  dark ; 
The  place  where  I  begun  poor  Nell 
Upon  the  woman's  road  to  hell. 
I  thought  oft,  sitting  in  my  corner 
After  the  time-keep  struck  his  warner 
(Two  brandy  flasks,  for  fear  of  noise, 
Clinked  out  the  time  to  us  two  boys). 
And  while  my  seconds  chafed  and  gloved  me 
I  thought  of  Nell's  eyes  when  she  loved  me, 
And  wondered  how  my  tot  would  end, 
First  Nell  cast  off  and  now  my  friend ; 
And  in  the  moonlight  dim  and  wan 
I  knew  quite  well  my  luck  was  gone ; 


THE  EVEELA8TING  MERCY  9 

And  looking  round  I  felt  a  spite 
At  all  who'd  come  to  see  me  fight ; 
The  five  and  forty  human  faces 
Inflamed  by  drink  and  going  to  races, 
Faces  of  men  who'd  never  been 
Merry  or  true  or  live  or  clean ; 
Who'd  never  felt  the  boxer's  trim 
Of  brain  divinely  knit  to  limb, 
Nor  felt  the  whole  live  body  go 
One  tingling  health  from  top  to  toe ; 
Nor  took  a  punch  nor  given  a  swing, 
But  just  soaked  deady  round  the  ring 
Until  their  brains  and  bloods  were  foul 
Enough  to  make  their  throttles  howl, 
While  we  whom  Jesus  died  to  teach 
Fought    round    on    round,    three    minutes 
each. 

And  thinking  that,  you'll  understand 
I  thought,  "Til  go  and  take  Bill's  hand. 


10  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

I'll  up  and  say  the  fault  was  mine, 

He  shan't  make  play  for  these  here  swine." 

And  then  I  thought  that  that  was  silly, 

They'd  think  I  was  afraid  of  Billy ; 

They'd   think   (I  thought    it,   God    forgive 

me) 

I  funked  the  hiding  Bill  could  give  me. 
And  that  thought  made  me  mad  and  hot. 
"Think  that,  will  they?    Well,  they  shall 

not. 

They  shan't  think  that.     I  will  not.     I'm 
Damned  if  I  will.     I  will  not." 

Time! 

From  the  beginning  of  the  bout 

My  luck  was  gone,  my  hand  was  out. 

Right  from  the  start  Bill  called  the  play, 

But  I  was  quick  and  kept  away 

Till  the  fourth  round,  when  work  got  mixed, 

And  then  I  knew  Bill  had  me  fixed. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  11 

My  hand  was  out,  why,  Heaven  knows ; 
Bill  punched  me  when  and  where  he  chose. 
Through  two  more  rounds  we  quartered  wide, 
And  all  the  time  my  hands  seemed  tied ; 
Bill  punched  me  when  and  where  he  pleased. 
The  cheering  from  my  backers  eased, 
But  every  punch  I  heard  a  yell 
Of  "That's  the  style,  BUI,  give  him  hell." 
No  one  for  me,  but  Jimmy's  light 
" Straight  left !    Straight  left ! "  and  "Watch 
his  right." 

I  don't  know  how  a  boxer  goes 

When  all  his  body  hums  from  blows ; 

I  know  I  seemed  to  rock  and  spin, 

I  don't  know  how  I  saved  my  chin ; 

I  know  I  thought  my  only  friend 

Was  that  clinked  flask  at  each  round's  end 

When  my  two  seconds,  Ed  and  Jimmy, 

Had  sixty  seconds  help  to  gimme. 


12  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

But  in  the  ninth,  with  pain  and  knocks 
I  stopped :  I  couldn't  fight  nor  box. 
Bill  missed  his  swing,  the  light  was  tricky, 
But  I  went  down,  and  stayed  down,  dicky. 
"Get  up,"  cried  Jim.    I  said,  "I  will." 
Then  all  the  gang  yelled,  "Out  him,  Bill. 
Out    him."    Bill    rushed  .  .  .  and    Clink, 

Clink,  Clink. 

Time  !  and  Jim's  knee,  and  rum  to  drink. 
And  round  the  ring  there  ran  a  titter : 
"Saved  by  the  call,  the  bloody  quitter." 

They  drove  (a  dodge  that  never  fails) 
A  pin  beneath  my  finger  nails. 
They  poured  what  seemed  a  running  beck 
Of  cold  spring  water  down  my  neck ; 
Jim  with  a  lancet  quick  as  flies 
Lowered  the  swellings  round  my  eyes. 
They  sluiced  my  legs  and  fanned  my  face 
Through  all  that  blessed  minute's  grace ; 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  13 

They  gave  my  calves  a  thorough  kneading, 
They  salved  my  cuts  and  stopped  the  bleeding. 
A  gulp  of  liquor  dulled  the  pain, 
And  then  the  two  flasks  clinked  again. 

Time! 

There  was  Bill  as  grim  as  death, 
He  rushed,  I  clinched,  to  get  more  breath, 
And  breath  I  got,  though  Billy  bats 
Some  stinging  short-arms  in  my  slats. 
And  when  we  broke,  as  I  foresaw, 
He  swung  his  right  in  for  the  jaw. 
I  stopped  it  on  my  shoulder  bone, 
And  at  the  shock  I  heard  Bill  groan  — 
A  little  groan  or  moan  or  grunt 
As  though  I'd  hit  his  wind  a  bunt. 
At  that,  I  clinched,  and  while  we  clinched, 
His  old  time  right  arm  dig  was  flinched, 
And  when  we  broke  he  hit  me  light 
As  though  he  didn't  trust  his  right, 


14  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

He  flapped  me  somehow  with  his  wrist 

As  though  he  couldn't  use  his  fist, 

And  when  he  hit  he  winced  with  pain. 

I  thought,  "Your  sprained  thumb's  crocked 

again." 

So  I  got  strength  and  Bill  gave  ground, 
And  that  round  was  an  easy  round. 

During  the  wait  my  Jimmy  said, 

"What's  making  Billy  fight  so  dead? 

He's  all  to  pieces.     Is  he  blown?" 

"His  thumb's  out." 

"No  ?    Then  it's  your  own. 

It's  all  your  own,  but  don't  be  rash  —   » 

He's  got  the  goods  if  you've  got  cash, 

And  what  one  hand  can  do  he'll  do, 

Be  careful  this  next  round  or  two." 

Time.    There  was  Bill,  and  I  felt  sick 
That  luck  should  play  so  mean  a  trick 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  15 

And  give  me  leave  to  knock  him  out 

After  he'd  plainly  won  the  bout. 

But  by  the  way  the  man  came  at  me 

He  made  it  plain  he  meant  to  bat  me ; 

If  you'd  a  seen  the  way  he  come 

You  wouldn't  think  he'd  crocked  a  thumb. 

With  all  his  skill  and  all  his  might 

He  clipped  me  dizzy  left  and  right ; 

The  Lord  knows  what  the  effort  cost, 

But  he  was  mad  to  think  he'd  lost, 

And  knowing  nothing  else  could  save  him 

He  didn't  care  what  pain  it  gave  him. 

He  called  the  music  and  the  dance 

For  five  rounds  more  and  gave  no  chance. 

Try  to  imagine  if  you  can 

The  kind  of  manhood  in  the  man; 

And  if  you'd  like  to  feel  his  pain 

You  sprain  your  thumb  and  hit  the  sprain. 

And  hit  it  hard,  with  all  your  power 


16  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

On  something  hard  for  half-an-hour, 
While  someone  thumps  you  black  and  blue, 
And  then  you'll  know  what  Billy  knew. 
Bill  took  that  pain  without  a  sound 
Till  halfway  through  the  eighteenth  round, 
And  then  I  sent  him  down  and  out, 
And  Silas  said,  "Kane  wins  the  bout.1" 

When  Bill  came  to,  you  understand, 

I  ripped  the  mitten  from  my  hand 

And  went  across  to  ask  Bill  shake. 

My  limbs  were  all  one  pain  and  ache, 

I  was  so  weary  and  so  sore 

I  don't  think  I'd  a  stood  much  more. 

Bill  in  his  corner  bathed  his  thumb, 

Buttoned  his  shirt  and  glowered  glum. 

"I'll  never  shake  your  hand,"  he  said. 

"I'd  rather  see  my  children  dead. 

I've  been  about  and  had  some  fun  with  you, 

But  you're  a  liar  and  I've  done  with  you. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  17 

You've  knocked  me  out,  you  didn't  beat  me ; 
Look  out  the  next  time  that  you  meet  me, 
There'll  be  no  friend  to  watch  the  clock  for 

you 

And  no  convenient  thumb  to  crock  for  you, 
And  I'll  take  care,  with  much  delight, 
You'll  get  what  you'd  a  got  to-night ; 
That  puts  my  meaning  clear,  I  guess, 
Now  get  to  hell ;  I  want  to  dress." 

I  dressed.    My  backers  one  and  all 
Said,  "Well  done  you,"  or  "Good  old  Saul." 
"Saul  is  a  wonder  and  a  fly  'un, 
What'll  you  have,  Saul,  at  the  Lion?" 
With  merry  oaths  they  helped  me  down 
The  stony  wood  path  to  the  town. 

The  moonlight  shone  on  Cabbage  Walk, 
It  made  the  limestone  look  like  chalk. 
It  was  too  late  for  any  people, 


18  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Twelve  struck  as  we  went  by  the  steeple. 
A  dog  barked,  and  an  owl  was  calling, 
The  squire's  brook  was  still  a-falling, 
The  carved  heads  on  the  church  looked  down 
On  "Russell,  Blacksmith  of  this  Town," 
And  all  the  graves  of  all  the  ghosts 
Who  rise  on  Christmas  Eve  in  hosts 
To  dance  and  carol  in  festivity 
For  joy  of  Jesus  Christ's  Nativity 
(Bell-ringer  Dawe  and  his  two  sons 
Beheld  'em  from  the  bell-tower  once), 
Two  and  two  about  about 
Singing  the  end  of  Advent  out, 
Dwindling  down  to  windlestraws 
When  the  glittering  peacock  craws, 
As  craw  the  glittering  peacock  should 
When  Christ's  own  star  comes  over  the  wood. 
Lamb  of  the  sky  come  out  of  fold 
Wandering  windy  heavens  cold. 
So  they  shone  and  sang  till  twelve 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  19 

When  all  the  bells  ring  out  of  theirselve. 
Rang  a  peal  for  Christmas  morn, 
Glory,  men,  for  Christ  is  born. 

All  the  old  monks'  singing  places 
Glimmered  quick  with  flitting  faces, 
Singing  anthems,  singing  hymns 
Under  carven  cherubims. 
Ringer  Dawe  aloft  could  mark 
Faces  at  the  window  dark 
Crowding,  crowding,  row  on  row, 
Till. all  the  Church  began  to  glow. 
The  chapel  glowed,  the  nave,  the  choir, 
All  the  faces  became  fire 
Below  the  eastern  window  high 
To  see  Christ's  star  come  up  the  sky.1 
Then  they  lifted  hands  and  turned, 
And  all  their  lifted  fingers  burned, 
Burned  like  the  golden  altar  tallows, 
Burned  like  a  troop  of  God's  own  Hallows, 


20  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Bringing  to  mind  the  burning  time 
When  all  the  bells  will  rock  and  chime 
And  burning  saints  on  burning  horses 
Will  sweep  the  planets  from  their  courses 
And  loose  the  stars  to  burn  up  night. 
Lord,  give  us  eyes  to  bear  the  light. 

"*— — . 

We  all  went  quiet  down  the  Scallenge 

Lest  Police  Inspector  Drew  should  challenge. 

But  'Spector  Drew  was  sleeping  sweet, 

His  head  upon  a  charges  sheet, 

Under  the  gas  jet  flaring  full, 

Snorting  and  snoring  like  a  bull, 

His  bull  cheeks  puffed,  his  bull  lips  blowing, 

His  ugly  yellow  front  teeth  showing. 

Just  as  we  peeped  we  saw  him  fumble 

And  scratch  his  head,  and  shift,  and  mumble. 

Down  in  the  lane  so  thin  and  dark 
The  tan-yards  stank  of  bitter  bark, 
The  curate's  pigeons  gave  a  flutter, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  21 

A  cat  went  courting  down  the  gutter, 
And  none  else  stirred  a  foot  or  feather. 
The  houses  put  their  heads  together, 
Talking,  perhaps,  so  dark  and  sly, 
Of  all  the  folk  they'd  seen  go  by, 
Children,  and  men  and  women,  merry  all, 
Who'd  some  day  pass  that  way  to  burial. 
It  was  all  dark,  but  at  the  turning 
The  Lion  had  a  window  burning. 
So  in  we  went  and  up  the  stairs, 
Treading  as  still  as  cats  and  hares. 
The  way  the  stairs  creaked  made  you  wonder 
If  dead  men's  bones  were  hidden  under. 
At  head  of  stairs  upon  the  landing 
A  woman  with  a  lamp  was  standing ; 
She  greet  each  gent  at  head  of  stairs 
With  "Step  in,  gents,  and  take  your  chairs. 
The  punch'll  come  when  kettle  bubble, 
But  don't  make  noise  or  there'll  be  trouble." 
'Twas  Doxy  Jane,  a  bouncing  girl 


22  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

With  eyes  all  sparks  and  hair  all  curl, 
And  cheeks  all  red  and  lips  all  coal, 
And  thirst  for  men  instead  of  soul. 
She's  trod  her  pathway  to  the  fire. 
Old  Rivers  had  his  nephew  by  her. 

I  step  aside  from  Tom  and  Jimmy 

To  find  if  she'd  a  kiss  to  gimme. 

I  blew  out  lamp  'fore  she  could  speak. 

She  said,  "If  you  ain't  got  a  cheek," 

And  then  beside  me  in  the  dim, 

"Did  he  beat  you  or  you  beat  him  ?" 

"Why,  I  beat  him"  (though  that  was  wrong). 

She  said,  "You  must  be  turble  strong. 

I'd  be  afraid  you'd  beat  me,  too." 

"You'd  not,"  I  said,  "I  wouldn't  do." 

"Never?" 

"No,  never." 

"Never?" 

"No." 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  23 

"0  Saul.     Here's  missus.     Let  me  go." 
It  wasn't  missus,  so  I  didn't, 
Whether  I  mid  do  or  I  midn't, 
Until  she'd  promised  we  should  meet 
Next  evening,  six,  at  top  of  street, 
When  we  could  have  a  quiet  talk 
On  that  low  wall  up  Worcester  Walk. 
And  while  we  whispered  there  together 
I  give  her  silver  for  a  feather 
And  felt  a  drunkenness  like  wine 
And  shut  out  Christ  in  husks  and  swine. 
I  felt  the  dart  strike  through  my  liver. 
God  punish  me  for't  and  forgive  her. 


Each  one  could  be  a  Jesus  mild, 
Each  one  has  been  a  little  child, 
A  little  child  with  laughing  look, 
A  lovely  white  unwritten  book  ; 
A  book  that  God  will  take,  my  friend, 
As  each  goes  out  at  journey's  end. 


24  THE  EVERLASTING  MEECY 

The  Lord  Who  gave  us  Earth  and  Heaven 
Takes  that  as  thanks  for  all  He's  given. 
The  book  he  lent  is  given  back 
All  blotted  red  and  smutted  black. 

"Open  the  door,"  said  Jim,  "and  call." 
Jane  gasped   "They'll  see  me.    Loose  me, 

Saul." 

She  pushed  me  by,  and  ducked  downstair 
With  half  the  pins  out  of  her  hair. 
I  went  inside  the  lit  room  rollen 
Her  scented  handkerchief  I'd  stolen. 
"What  would  you  fancy,  Saul?"  they  said. 
"A  gin  punch  hot  and  then  to  bed." 
"Jane,  fetch  the  punch  bowl  to  the  gemmen ; 
And  mind  you  don't  put  too  much  lemon. 
Our  good  friend  Saul  has  had  a  fight  of  it, 
Now  smoke  up,  boys,  and  make  a  night  of  it." 

The  room  was  full  of  men  and  stink 
Of  bad  cigars  and  heavy  drink. 


THE  EVERLASTING  NERCY  25 

Riley  was  nodding  to  the  floor 
And  gurgling  as  he  wanted  more. 
His  mouth  was  wide,  his  face  was  pale, 
His  swollen  face  was  sweating  ale ; 
And  one  of  those  assembled  Greeks 
Had  corked  black  crosses  on  his  cheeks. 
Thomas  was  having  words  with  Goss, 
He  "wouldn't  pay,  the  fight  was  cross." 
And  Goss  told  Tom  that  "cross  or  no, 
The  bets  go  as  the  verdicts  go, 
By  all  I've  ever  heard  or  read  of. 
So  pay,  or  else  I'll  knock  your  head  off." 
Jim  Gurvil  said  his  smutty  say 
About  a  girl  down  Bye  Street  way, 
And  how  the  girl  from  Froggatt's  circus 
Died  giving  birth  in  Newent  work'us. 
And  Dick  told  how  the  Dymock  wench 
Bore  twins,  poor  thing,  on  Dog  Hill  bench  ; 
And  how  he'd  owned  to  one  in  Court 
And  how  Judge  made  him  sorry  for't. 


26  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Jack  set  a  Jew's  harp  twanging  drily ; 
"Gimme  another  cup,"  said  Riley. 
A  dozen  more  were  in  their  glories 
With  laughs  and  smokes  and  smutty  stories ; 
And  Jimmy  joked  and  took  his  sup 
And  sang  his  song  of  "Up,  come  up." 
Jane  brought  the  bowl  of  stewing  gin 
And  poured  the  egg  and  lemon  in, 
And  whisked  it  up  and  served  it  out 
While  bawdy  questions  went  about. 
Jack  chucked  her  chin,  and  Jim  accost  her 
With  bits  out  of  the  "Maid  of  Gloster." 
And  fifteen  arms  went  round  her  waist. 
(And  then  men  ask,  Are  Barmaids  chaste  ?) 

O  young  men,  pray  to  be  kept  whole 
From  bringing  down  a  weaker  soul. 
Your  minute's  joy  so  meet  in  doin' 
May  be  the  woman's  door  to  ruin  ; 
The  door  to  wandering  up  and  down, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCT  27 

A  painted  whore  at  half  a  crown. 

The  bright  mind  fouled,  the  beauty  gay 

All  eaten  out  and  fallen  away, 

By  drunken  days  and  weary  tramps 

From  pub  to  pub  by  city  lamps 

Till  men  despise  the  game  they  started 

Till  health  and  beauty  are  departed, 

And  in  a  slum  the  reeking  hag 

Mumbles  a  crust  with  toothy  jag, 

Or  gets  the  river's  help  to  end 

The  life  too  wrecked  for  man  to  mend. 


We  spat  and  smoked  and  took  our  swipe 
Till  Silas  up  and  tap  his  pipe, 
And  begged  us  all  to  pay  attention 
Because  he'd  several  things  to  mention. 
We'd  seen  the  fight  (Hear,  hear.     That's 

you); 

But  still  one  task  remained  to  do, 
That  task  was  his,  he  didn't  shun  it, 


28  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

To  give  the  purse  to  him  as  won  it. 
With  this  remark,  from  start  to  out 
He'd  never  seen  a  brisker  bout. 
There  was  the  purse.    At  that  he'd  leave  it. 
Let  Kane  come  forward  to  receive  it. 

I  took  the  purse  and  hemmed  and  bowed, 
And  called  for  gin  punch  for  the  crowd ; 
And  when  the  second  bowl  was  done, 
I  called,  "  Let's  have  another  one." 
Si's  wife  come  in  and  sipped  and  sipped 
(As  women  will)  till  she  was  pipped. 
And  Si  hit  Dicky  Twot  a  clouter 
Because  he  put  his  arm  about  her ; 
But  after  Si  got  overtasked 
She  sat  and  kissed  whoever  asked. 
My  Doxy  Jane  was  splashed  by  this, 
I  took  her  on  my  knee  to  kiss. 
And  Tom  cried  out,  "  0  damn  the  gin ; 
Why  can't  we  all  have  women  in  ? 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  29 

Bess  Evans,  now,  or  Sister  Polly, 

Or  those  two  housemaids  at  the  Folly  ? 

Let  someone  nip  to  Biddy  Price's, 

They'd  all  come  in  a  brace  of  trices. 

Rose  Davies,  Sue,  and  Betsy  Perks ; 

One  man,  one  girl,  and  damn  all  Turks." 

But,  no.     " More  gin,"  they  cried;     "Come 

on. 

We'll  have  the  girls  in  when  it's  gone." 
So  round  the  gin  went,  hot  and  heady, 
Hot  Hollands  punch  on  top  of  deady. 

Hot  Hollands  punch  on  top  of  stout 
Puts  madness  in  and  wisdom  out. 
From  drunken  man  to  drunken  man 
The  drunken  madness  raged  and  ran. 
"I'm  climber  Joe  who  climbed  the  spire." 
"You're  climber  Joe  the  bloody  liar." 
"Who  says  I  lie?"     "I  do." 

"You  lie, 


30  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

I  climbed  the  spire  and  had  a  fly." 

"I'm  French  Suzanne,  the  Circus  Dancer, 

I'm  going  to  dance  a  bloody  Lancer." 

"If  I'd  my  rights  I'm  Squire's  heir." 

"By  rights  I'd  be  a  millionaire." 

"By  rights  I'd  be  the  lord  of  you, 

But  Farmer  Scriggins  had  his  do, 

He  done  me,  so  I've  had  to  hoove  it, 

I've  got  it  all  wrote  down  to  prove  it. 

And  one  of  these  dark  winter  nights 

He'll  learn  I  mean  to  have  my  rights ; 

I'll  bloody  him  a  bloody  fix, 

I'll  bloody  burn  his  bloody  ricks." 

From  three  long  hours  of  gin  and  smokes, 
And  two  girls'  breath  and  fifteen  blokes, 
A  warmish  night,  and  windows  shut, 
The  room  stank  like  a  fox's  gut. 
The  heat  and  smell  and  drinking  deep 
Began  to  stun  the  gang  to  sleep. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  31 

Some  fell  downstairs  to  sleep  on  the  mat, 
Some  snored  it  sodden  where  they  sat. 
Dick  Twot  had  lost  a  tooth  and  wept, 
But  all  the  drunken  others  slept. 
Jane  slept  beside  me  in  the  chair, 
And  I  got  up ;  I  wanted  air. 

I  opened  window  wide  and  leaned 

Out  of  that  pigstye  of  the  fiend 

And  felt  a  cool  wind  go  like  grace 

About  the  sleeping  market-place. 

The  clock  struck  three,  and  sweetly,  slowly, 

The  bells  chimed  Holy,  Holy,  Holy; 

And  hi  a  second's  pause  there  fell 

The  cold  note  of  the  chapel  bell, 
And  then  a  cock  crew,  flapping  wings, 
And  summat  made  me  think  of  things. 
How  long  those  ticking  clocks  had  gone 
From  church  and  chapel,  on  and  on, 
Ticking  the  time  out,  ticking  slow 


32  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

To  men  and  girls  who'd  come  and  go, 
And  how  they  ticked  in  belfry  dark 
When  half  the  town  was  bishop's  park, 
And  how  they'd  rung  a  chime  full  tilt 
The  night  after  the  church  was  built, 
And  how  that  night  was  Lambert's  Feast, 
The  night  I'd  fought  and  been  a  beast. 
And  how  a  change  had  come.    And  then 
I  thought,  "You  tick  to  different  men." 

What  with  the  fight  and  what  with  drinking 
And  being  awake  alone  there  thinking, 
My  mind  began  to  carp  and  tetter, 
"If  this  life's  all,  the  beasts  are  better." 
And  then  I  thought,  "  I  wish  I'd  seen 
The  many  towns  this  town  has  been; 
I  wish  I  knew  if  they'd  a-got 
A  kind  of  summat  we've  a-not, 
If  them  as  built  the  church  so  fair 
Were  half  the  chaps  folk  say  they  were; 


THE  EVERLASTING  MEECY  33 

For  they'd  the  skill  to  draw  their  plan, 

And  skill's  a  joy  to  any  man ; 

And  they'd  the  strength,  not  skill  alone, 

To  build  it  beautiful  in  stone ; 

And  strength  and  skill  together  thus 

O,  they  were  happier  men  than  us. 

But  if  they  were,  they  had  to  die 
The  same  as  every  one  and  I. 
And  no  one  lives  again,  but  dies, 
And  all  the  bright  goes  out  of  eyes, 
And  all  the  skill  goes  out  of  hands, 
And  all  the  wise  brain  understands, 
And  all  the  beauty,  all  the  power 
Is  cut  down  like  a  withered  flower. 
In  all  the  show  from  birth  to  rest 
I  give  the  poor  dumb  cattle  best." 

I  wondered,  then,  why  life  should  be, 
And  what  would  be  the  end  of  me 


84  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

When  youth  and  health  and  strength  were 

gone 

And  cold  old  age  came  creeping  on  ? 
A  keeper's  gun  ?    The  Union  ward  ? 
Or  that  new  quod  at  Hereford  ? 
And  looking  round  I  felt  disgust 
At  all  the  nights  of  drink  and  lust, 
And  all  the  looks  of  all  the  swine 
Who'd  said  that  they  were  friends  of  mine ; 
And  yet  I  knew,  when  morning  came, 
The  morning  would  be  just  the  same, 
For  I'd  have  drinks  and  Jane  would  meet  me 
And  drunken  Silas  Jones  would  greet  me, 
And  I'd  risk  quod  and  keeper's  gun 
Till  all  the  silly  game  was  done. 
"For  parson  chaps  are  mad,  supposin' 
A  chap  can  change  the  road  he's  chosen." 
And  then  the  Devil  whispered,  "Saul, 
Why  should  you  want  to  live  at  all  ? 
Why  fret  and  sweat  and  try  to  mend  ? 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  35 

It's  all  the  same  thing  in  the  end. 
But  when  it's  done,"  he  said,  "it's  ended. 
Why  stand  it,  since  it  can't  be  mended  ?  " 
And  in  my  heart  I  heard  him  plain, 
"Throw  yourself  down  and  end  it,  Kane." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  I.    "  Why  not  ?    But  no. 
I  won't.    I've  never  had  my  go. 
I've  not  had  all  the  world  can  give. 
Death  by  and  by,  but  first  I'll  live. 
The  world  owes  me  my  time  of  times, 
And  that  tune's  coming  now,  by  crimes." 

A  madness  took  me  then.    I  felt 
I'd  like  to  hit  the  world  a  belt. 
I  felt  that  I  could  fly  through  air, 
A  screaming  star  with  blazing  hah*, 
A  rushing  comet,  crackling,  numbing 
The  folk  with  fear  of  judgment  coming, 
A  'Lijah  in  a  fiery  car, 
Coming  to  tell  folk  what  they  are. 


36  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

"  That's  what  Til  do,"  I  shouted  loud, 

"I'll  tell  this  sanctimonious  crowd 

This  town  of  window  peeping,  prying, 

Maligning,  peering,  hinting,  lying, 

Male  and  female  human  blots 

Who   would,   but   daren't  be,  whores  and 

sots, 

That  they're  so  steeped  in  petty  vice 
That  they're  less  excellent  than  lice, 
That  they're  so  soaked  in  petty  virtue 
That  touching  one  of  them  will  dirt  you, 
Dirt  you  with  the  stain  of  mean 
Cheating  trade  and  going  between, 
Pinching,  starving,  scraping,  hoarding, 
Spying  through  the  chinks  of  boarding 
To  see  if  Sue,  the  prentice  lean, 
Dares  to  touch  the  margarine. 
Fawning,  cringing,  oiling  boots, 
Raging  in  the  crowd's  pursuits, 
Flinging  stones  at  all  the  Stephens, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  37 

Standing  firm  with  all  the  evens, 
Making  hell  for  all  the  odd, 
All  the  lonely  ones  of  God, 
Those  poor  lonely  ones  who  find 
Dogs  more  mild  than  human  kind. 
For  dogs,"  I  said,  "are  nobles  bora 
To  most  of  you,  you  cockled  corn. 
I've  known  dogs  to  leave  their  dinner, 
Nosing  a  kind  heart  in  a  sinner. 
Poor  old  Crafty  wagged  his  tail 
The  day  I  first  came  home  from  jail. 
When  all  my  folk,  so  primly  clad, 
Glowered  black  and  thought  me  mad, 
And  muttered  how  they'd  been  respected, 
While  I  was  what  they'd  all  expected. 
(I've  thought  of  that  old  dog  for  years, 
And  of  how  near  I  come  to  tears.) 

But  you,  you  minds  of  bread  and  cheese, 
Are  less  divine  than  that  dog's  fleas. 


88  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

You  suck  blood  from  kindly  friends, 
And  kill  them  when  it  serves  your  ends. 
Double  traitors,  double  black, 
Stabbing  only  in  the  back, 
Stabbing  with  the  knives  you  borrow 
From  the  friends  you  bring  to  sorrow. 
You  stab  all  that's  true  and  strong, 
Truth  and  strength  you  say  are  wrong, 
Meek  and  mild,  and  sweet  and  creeping, 
Repeating,  canting,  cadging,  peeping, 
That's  the  art  and  that's  the  life 
To  win  a  man  his  neighbour's  wife. 
All  that's  good  and  all  that's  true, 
You  kill  that,  so  I'll  kill  you." 

At  that  I  tore  my  clothes  in  shreds 
And  hurled  them  on  the  window  leads ; 
I  flung  my  boots  through  both  the  winders 
And  knocked  the  glass  to  little  flinders ; 
The  punch  bowl  and  the  tumblers  followed, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  39 

And  then  I  seized  the  lamps  and  holloed, 

And  down  the  stairs,  and  tore  back  bolts, 

As  mad  as  twenty  blooded  colts ; 

And  out  into  the  street  I  pass, 

As  mad  as  two-year-olds  at  grass, 

A  naked  madman  waving  grand 

A  blazing  lamp  in  either  hand. 

I  yelled  like  twenty  drunken  sailors, 

"The  devil's  come  among  the  tailors.'* 

A  blaze  of  flame  behind  me  streamed, 

And  then  I  clashed  the  lamps  and  screamed 

"I'm  Satan,  newly  come  from  hell." 

And  then  I  spied  the  fire  bell. 

I've  been  a  ringer,  so  I  know 
How  best  to  make  a  big  bell  go. 
So  on  to  bell-rope  swift  I  swoop, 
And  stick  my  one  foot  in  the  loop 
And  heave  a  down-swig  till  I  groan, 
"Awake,  you  swine,  you  devil's  own." 


40  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

I  made  the  fire-bell  awake, 
I  felt  the  bell-rope  throb  and  shake ; 
I  felt  the  air  mingle  and  clang 
And  beat  the  walls  a  muffled  bang, 
And  stifle  back  and  boom  and  bay 
Like  muffled  peals  on  Boxing  Day, 
And  then  surge  up  and  gather  shape, 
And  spread  great  pinions  and  escape ; 
And  each  great  bird  of  clanging  shrieks 

0  Fire  !   Fire,  from  iron  beaks. 

My  shoulders  cracked  to  send  around 
Those  shrieking  birds  made  out  of  sound 
With  news  of  fire  in  their  bills. 
(They  heard  'em  plain  beyond  Wall  Hills.) 

Up  go  the  winders,  out  come  heads, 

1  heard  the  springs  go  creak  in  beds ; 
But  still  I  heave  and  sweat  and  tire, 
And  still  the  clang  goes  "Fire,  Fire  !" 
"  Where  is  it,  then  ?    Who  is  it,  there  ? 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  41 

You  ringer,  stop,  and  tell  us  where." 
"Run  round  and  let  the  Captain  know." 
"It  must  be  bad,  he's  ringing  so." 
"It's  in  the  town,  I  see  the  flame; 
Look  there  !    Look  there,  how  red  it  came." 
"Where  is  it,  then ?    0  stop  the  bell." 
I  stopped  and  called :  "It's  fire  of  hell ; 
And  this  is  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 
And  now  I'll  burn  you  up,  begorra." 

By  this  the  firemen  were  mustering, 

The  half-dressed  stable  men  were  flustering, 

Backing  the  horses  out  of  stalls 

While  this  man  swears  and  that  man  bawls, 

"Don't   take   th'   old   mare.    Back,  Toby, 

back. 

Back,  Lincoln.    Where's  the  fire,  Jack?" 
"Damned  if  I  know.     Out  Preston  way." 
"No.     It's  at  Chancey's  Pitch,  they  say." 
"It's  sixteen  ricks  at  Pauntley  burnt." 


42  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

"You  back  old  Darby  out,  I  durn't." 
They  ran  the  big  red  engine  out, 
And  put  'em  to  with  damn  and  shout. 
And  then  they  start  to  raise  the  shire, 
"Who  brought  the  news,  and  where's  the 

fire?" 
They'd  moonlight,  lamps,  and  gas  to  light 

'em. 

I  give  a  screech-owl's  screech  to  fright  'em, 
And  snatch  from  underneath  their  noses 
The  nozzles  of  the  fire  hoses. 
"I  am  the  fire.     Back,  stand  back, 
Or  else  I'll  fetch  your  skulls  a  crack ; 
D'you  see  these  copper  nozzles  here  ? 
They  weigh  ten  pounds  apiece,  my  dear ; 
I'm  fire  of  hell  come  up  this  minute 
To  burn  this  town,  and  all  that's  in  it. 
To  burn  you  dead  and  burn  you  clean, 
You  cogwheels  in  a  stopped  machine, 
You  hearts  of  snakes,  and  brains  of  pigeons, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  43 

You  dead  devout  of  dead  religions, 
You  offspring  of  the  hen  and  ass, 
By  Pilate  ruled,  and  Caiaphas. 
Now  your  account  is  totted.     Learn 
Hell's  flames  are  loose  and  you  shall  burn." 

At  that  I  leaped  and  screamed  and  ran, 
I  heard  their  cries  go,  "Catch  him,  man." 
"  Who  was  it  ?  "     "  Down  him."     "  Out  him, 

Ern." 
"Duck    him    at    pump,    we'll    see    who'll 

burn." 

A  policeman  clutched,  a  fireman  clutched, 
A  dozen  others  snatched  and  touched. 
"By  God,  he's  stripped  down  to  his  buff." 
"By  God,  we'll  make  him  warm  enough." 
"After  him,"     "Catch  him,"    "Out  him," 

"Scrobhim." 
"  We'll  give  him  hell."     "By  God,  we'll  mob 

him." 


44  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

"We'll  duck  him,  scrout  him,  flog  him,  fratch 

him." 
"All  right,"  I  said.      "But  first  you'll  catch 

him." 

The  men  who  don't  know  to  the  root 
The  joy  of  being  swift  of  foot, 
Have  never  known  divine  and  fresh 
The  glory  of  the  gift  of  flesh, 
Nor  felt  the  feet  exult,  nor  gone 
Along  a  dim  road,  on  and  on, 
Knowing  again  the  bursting  glows, 
The  mating  hare  in  April  knows, 
Who  tingles  to  the  pads  with  mirth 
At  being  the  swiftest  thing  on  earth. 
O,  if  you  want  to  know  delight, 
Run  naked  in  an  autumn  night, 
And  laugh,  as  I  laughed  then,  to  find 
A  running  rabble  drop  behind, 
And  whang,  on  every  door  you  pass, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  45 

Two  copper  nozzles,  tipped  with  brass, 

And  doubly  whang  at  every  turning, 

And  yell,  "All  hell's  let  loose,  and  burning." 

I  beat  my  brass  and  shouted  fire 
At  doors  of  parson,  lawyer,  squire, 
At  all  three  doors  I  threshed  and  slammed 
And  yelled  aloud  that  they  were  damned. 
I  clodded  squire's  glass  with  turves 
Because  he  spring-gunned  his  preserves. 
Through  parson's  glass  my  nozzle  swishes 
Because  he  stood  for  loaves  and  fishes, 
But  parson's  glass  I  spared  a  tittle. 
He  give  me  a  orange  once  when  little, 
And  he  who  gives  a  child  a  treat 
Makes  joy-bells  ring  in  Heaven's  street, 
And  he  who  gives  a  child  a  home 
Builds  palaces  in  Kingdom  come, 
And  she  who  gives  a  baby  birth 
Brings  Saviour  Christ  again  to  Earth, 


46  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

For  life  is  joy,  and  mind  is  fruit, 
And  body's  precious  earth  and  root. 

r 

But  lawyer's  glass  —  well,  never  mind, 

yv 

Th'old  Adam's  strong  in  me,  I  find. 
God  pardon  man,  and  may  God's  son 
Forgive  the  evil  things  I've  done. 


What  more  ?    By  Dirty  Lane  I  crept 
Back  to  the  Lion,  where  I  slept. 
The  raging  madness  hot  and  floodin' 
Boiled  itself  out  and  left  me  sudden, 
Left  me  worn  out  and  sick  and  cold, 
Aching  as  though  I'd  all  grown  old  ; 

50  there  I  lay,  and  there  they  found  me 
On  door-mat,  with  a  curtain  round  me. 

51  took  my  heels  and  Jane  my  head 
And  laughed,  and  carried  me  to  bed. 

And    from    the    neighbouring    street    they 

reskied 
My  boots  and  trousers,  coat  and  weskit  ; 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  47 

They  bath-bricked  both  the  nozzles  bright 
To  be  mementoes  of  the  night, 
And  knowing  what  I  should  awake  with 
They  flannelled  me  a  quart  to  slake  with, 
And  sat  and  shook  till  half  past  two 
Expecting  Police  Inspector  Drew. 

I  woke  and  drank,  and  went  to  meat 
In  clothes  still  dirty  from  the  street. 
Down  in  the  bar  I  heard  'em  tell 
How  someone  rang  the  fire  bell, 
And  how  th'  inspector's  search  had  thriven, 
And  how  five  pounds  reward  was  given. 
And  Shepherd  Boyce,  of  Marley,  glad  us 
By  saying  it  was  blokes  from  mad'us, 
Or  two  young  rips  lodged  at  the  Prince 
Whom  none  had  seen  nor  heard  of  since, 
Or  that  young  blade  from  Worcester  Walk 
(You  know  how  country  people  talk). 
Young  Joe  the  ostler  come  in  sad, 


48  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

He  said  th'old  mare  had  bit  his  dad. 

He  said  there'd  come  a  blazing  screeching 

Daft  Bible-prophet  chap  a-preaching, 

Had  put  th'old  mare  in  such  a  taking 

She'd  thought  the  bloody  earth  was  quaking. 

And  others  come  and  spread  a  tale 

Of  cut-throats  out  of  Gloucester  jail, 

And  how  we  needed  extra  cops 

With  all  them  Welsh  come  picking  hops ; 

With  drunken  Welsh  in  all  our  sheds 

We  might  be  murdered  in  our  beds. 

By  all  accounts,  both  men  and  wives 
Had  had  the  scare  up  of  their  lives. 

I  ate  and  drank  and  gathered  strength, 
And  stretched  along  the  bench  full  length, 
Or  crossed  to  window  seat  to  pat 
Black  Silas  Jones's  little  cat. 
At  four  I  called,  "You  devil's  own, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  49 

The  second  trumpet  shall  be  blown. 

The  second  trump,  the  second  blast ; 

Hell's  flames  are  loosed,   and    judgment's 

passed. 

Too  late  for  mercy  now.    Take  warning. 
I'm  death  and  hell  and  Judgment  morning." 
I  hurled  the  bench  into  the  settle, 
I  banged  the  table  on  the  kettle, 
I  sent  Joe's  quart  of  cider  spinning. 
"Lo,  here  begins  my  second  inning." 
Each  bottle,  mug,  and  jug  and  pot 
I  smashed  to  crocks  in  half  a  tot ; 
And  Joe,  and  Si,  and  Nick,  and  Percy 
I  rolled  together  topsy  versy. 
And  as  I  ran  I  heard  'em  call, 
"Now    damn    to    hell,    what's   gone    with 

Saul?" 

Out  into  street  I  ran  uproarious 
The  devil  dancing  in  me  glorious. 


50  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

And  as  I  ran  I  yell  and  shriek 
"Come  on,  now,  turn  the  other  cheek.'* 
Across  the  way  by  almshouse  pump 
I  see  old  puffing  parson  stump. 
Old  parson,  red-eyed  as  a  ferret 

From  nightly  wrestlings  with  the  spirit ; 

—      .^ 

I  ran  across,  and  barred  his  path. 

His  turkey  gills  went  red  as  wrath 

And  then  he  froze,  as  parsons  can. 

"The  police  will  deal  with  you,  my  man." 

"Not  yet,"  said  I,  "not  yet  they  won't; 

And  now  you'll  hear  me,  like  or  don't. 

The  English  Church  both  is  and  was 

A  subsidy  of  Caiaphas. 

I  don't  believe  in  Prayer  nor  Bible, 

They're  lies  all  through,  and  you're  a  libel, 

A  libel  on  the  Devil's  plan 

When  first  he  miscreated  man. 

You  mumble  through  a  formal  code 

To  get  which  martyrs  burned  and  glowed. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  51 

I  look  on  martyrs  as  mistakes, 

But  still  they  burned  for  it  at  stakes ; 

Your  only  fire's  the  jolly  fire 

Where  you  can  guzzle  port  with  Squire, 

And  back  and  praise  his  damned  opinions 

About  his  temporal  dominions. 

You  let  him  give  the  man  who  digs, 

A  filthy  hut  unfit  for  pigs, 

Without  a  well,  without  a  drain, 

With  mossy  thatch  that  lets  in  rain, 

Without  a  'lotment,  'less  he  rent  it, 

And  never  meat,  unless  he  scent  it, 

But  weekly  doles  of  'leven  shilling 

To  make  a  grown  man  strong  and  willing, 

To  do  the  hardest  work  on  earth 

And  feed  his  wife  when  she  gives  birth, 

And  feed  his  little  children's  bones. 

I  tell  you,  man,  the  Devil  groans. 

With  all  your  main  and  all  your  might 

You  back  what  is  against  what's  right ; 


52  THE  EVERLASTING  MEECT 

You  let  the  Squire  do  things  like  these, 
You  back  him  in't  and  give  him  ease, 
You  take  his  hand,  and  drink  his  wine, 
And  he's  a  hog,  but  you're  a  swine. 
For  you  take  gold  to  teach  God's  ways 
And  teach  man  how  to  sing  God's  praise. 
And  now  I'll  tell  you  what  you  teach 
In  downright  honest  English  speech. 

"You  teach  the  ground-down  starving  man 

That  Squire's  greed's  Jehovah's  plan. 

You  get  his  learning  circumvented 

Lest  it  should  make  him  discontented 

(Better  a  brutal,  starving  nation 

Than  men  with  thoughts  above  their  station), 

You  let  him  neither  read  nor  think, 

You  goad  his  wretched  soul  to  drink 

And  then  to  jail,  the  drunken  boor; 

O  sad  intemperance  of  the  poor. 

You  starve  his  soul  till  it's  rapscallion, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  53 

Then  blame  his  flesh  for  being  stallion. 
You  send  your  wife  around  to  paint 
The  golden  glories  of  "restraint." 
How  moral  exercise  bewild'rin' 
Would  soon  result  in  fewer  children. 
You  work  a  day  in  Squire's  fields 
And  see  what  sweet  restraint  it  yields, 
A  woman's  day  at  turnip  picking, 
Your  heart's  too  fat  for  plough  or  ricking. 

"And  you  whom  luck  taught  French    and 

Greek 

Have  purple  flaps  on  either  cheek, 
A  stately  house,  and  time  for  knowledge, 
And  gold  to  send  your  sons  to  college, 
That  pleasant  place,  where  getting  learning 
Is  also  key  to  money  earning. 
But  quite  your  damndest  want  of  grace 
Is  what  you  do  to  save  your  face ; 
The  way  you  sit  astride  the  gates 


54  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

By  padding  wages  out  of  rates ; 
Your  Christmas  gifts  of  shoddy  blankets 
That  every  working  soul  may  thank  its 
Loving  parson,  loving  squire 
Through  whom  he  can't  afford  a  fire. 
Your  well-packed  bench,  your  prison  pen, 
To  keep  them  something  less  than  men ; 
Your  friendly  clubs  to  help  'em  bury, 
Your  charities  of  midwifery. 
Your  bidding  children  duck  and  cap 
To  them  who  give  them  workhouse  pap. 
O,  what  you  are,  and  what  you  preach, 
And  what  you  do,  and  what  you  teach 
Is  not  God's  Word,  nor  honest  schism, 
But  Devil's  cant  and  pauperism." 

By  this  time  many  folk  had  gathered 
To  listen  to  me  while  I  blathered ; 
I  said  my  piece,  and  when  I'd  said  it, 
I'll  do  old  purple  parson  credit, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  55 

He  sunk  (as  sometimes  parsons  can) 

His  coat's  excuses  in  the  man. 

"You  think  that  Squire  and  I  are  kings 

Who  made  the  existing  state  of  things, 

And  made  it  ill.     I  answer,  No, 

States  are  not  made,  nor  patched ;  they  grow,- 

Grow  slow  through  centuries  of  pain 

And  grow  correctly  in  the  main, 

But  only  grow  by  certain  laws 

Of  certain  bits  in  certain  jaws. 

You  want  to  doctor  that.     Let  be. 

You  cannot  patch  a  growing  tree. 

Put  these  two  words  beneath  your  hat, 

<-N 

These  two :  securus  judicat. 

The  social  states  of  human  kinds 

Are  made  by  multitudes  of  minds, 

And  after  multitudes  of  years 

A  little  human  growth  appears 

Worth  having,  even  to  the  soul 

Who  sees  most  plain  it's  not  the  whole. 


66  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

This  state  is  dull  and  evil,  both, 

I  keep  it  in  the  path  of  growth ; 

You  think  the  Church  an  outworn  fetter ; 

Kane,  keep  it,  till  you've  built  a  better. 

And  keep  the  existing  social  state ; 

I  quite  agree  it's  out  of  date, 

One  does  too  much,  another  shirks, 

Unjust,  I  grant ;  but  still  ...  it  works. 

To  get  the  whole  world  out  of  bed 

And  washed,  and  dressed,  and  warmed,  and 

fed, 

To  work,  and  back  to  bed  again, 
Believe  me,  Saul,  costs  worlds  of  pain. 
Then,  as  to  whether  true  or  sham 
That  book  of  Christ,  Whose  priest  I  am ; 
The  Bible  is  a  lie,  say  you, 
Where  do  you  stand,  suppose  it  true  ? 
Good-bye.     But  if  you've  more  to  say, 
My  doors  are  open  night  and  day. 
Meanwhile,  my  friend,  'twould  be  no  sin 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  57 

To  mix  more  water  in  your  gin. 
We're  neither  saints  nor  Philip  Sidneys, 
But  mortal  men  with  mortal  kidneys." 

He  took  his  snuff,  and  wheezed  a  greeting, 
And  waddled  off  to  mothers'  meeting ; 
I  hung  my  head  upon  my  chest, 
I  give  old  purple  parson  best. 
For  while  the  Plough  tips  round  the  Pole 
The  trained  mind  outs  the  upright  soul, 
As  Jesus  said  the  trained  mind  might, 
Being  wiser  than  the  sons  of  light, 
But  trained  men's  minds  are  spread  so  thin 
They  let  all  sorts  of  darkness  in  ; 
Whatever  light  man  finds  they  doubt  it 
They  love,  not  light,  but  talk  about  it. 

But  parson'd  proved  to  people's  eyes 
That  I  was  drunk,  and  he  was  wise ; 
And  people  grinned  and  women  tittered, 
And  little  children  mocked  and  twittered. 


58  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

So,  blazing  mad,  I  stalked  to  bar 

To  show  how  noble  drunkards  are, 

And  guzzled  spirits  like  a  beast, 

To  show  contempt  for  Church  and  priest, 

Until,  by  six,  my  wits  went  round 

Like  hungry  pigs  in  parish  pound. 

At  half  past  six,  rememb'ring  Jane, 

I  staggered  into  street  again 

With  mind  made  up  (or  primed  with  gin) 

To  bash  the  cop  who'd  run  me  in ; 

For  well  I  knew  I'd  have  to  cock  up 

My  legs  that  night  inside  the  lock-up, 

And  it  was  my  most  fixed  intent 

To  have  a  fight  before  I  went. 

Our  Fates  are  strange,  and  no  one  knows  his ; 

Our  lovely  Saviour  Christ  disposes. 

Jane  wasn't  where  we'd  planned,  the  jade. 
She'd  thought  me  drunk  and  hadn't  stayed. 
So  I  went  up  the  Walk  to  look  for  her 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  59 

And  lingered  by  the  little  brook  for  her, 
And  dowsed  my  face,  and  drank  at  spring, 
And  watched  two  wild  duck  on  the  wing. 
The  moon  come  pale,  the  wind  come  cool, 
A  big  pike  leapt  in  Lower  Pool, 
The  peacock  screamed,  the  clouds  were  strak- 


My  cut  cheek  felt  the  weather  breaking ; 
An  orange  sunset  waned  and  thinned 
Foretelling  rain  and  western  wind, 
And  while  I  watched  I  heard  distinct 
The  metals  on  the  railway  clinked. 
The  blood-edged  clouds  were  all  in  tatters, 
The  sky  and  earth  seemed  mad  as  hatters ; 
They  had  a  death  look,  wild  and  odd, 
Of  something  dark  foretold  by  God.   <X 
And  seeing  it  so,  I  felt  so  shaken 
I  wouldn't  keep  the  road  I'd  taken, 
But  wandered  back  towards  the  inn 
Resolved  to  brace  myself  with  gin. 


60  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

And  as  I  walked,  I  said,  "It's  strange, 
There's    Death    let     loose     to-night,     and 
Change." 

In  Cabbage  Walk  I  made  a  haul 
Of  two  big  pears  from  lawyer's  wall, 
And,  munching  one,  I  took  the  lane 
Back  into  Market-place  again. 
Lamp-lighter  Dick  had  passed  the  turning^ 
And  all  the  Homend  lamps  were  burning. 
The  windows  shone,  the  shops  were  busy, 
But  that  strange  Heaven  made  me  dizzy. 
The  sky  had  all  God's  warning  writ 
In  bloody  marks  all  over  it, 
And  over  all  I  thought  there  was 
A  ghastly  light  besides  the  gas. 
The  Devil's  tasks  and  Devil's  rages 
Were  giving  me  the  Devil's  wages. 

In  Market-place  it's  always  light, 
The  big  shop  windows  make  it  bright ; 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  61 

And  in  the  press  of  people  buying 

I  spied  a  little  fellow  crying 

Because  his  mother'd  gone  inside 

And  left  him  there,  and  so  he  cried. 

And  mother'd  beat  him  when  she  found  him, 

And  mother's  whip  would  curl  right  round 

him, 

And  mother'd  say  he'd  done't  to  crost  her, 
Though  there  being  crowds  about  he'd  lost 

her. 

Lord,  give  to  men  who  are  old  and  rougher 
The  things  that  little  children  suffer, 
And  let  keep  bright  and  undefiled 
The  young  years  of  the  little  child. 
I  pat  his  head  at  edge  of  street 
And  gi'm  my  second  pear  to  eat. 
Right  under  lamp,  I  pat  his  head, 
"I'll  stay  till  mother  come,"  I  said, 
And  stay  I  did,  and  joked  and  talked, 


62  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

And  shoppers  wondered  as  they  walked. 
"There's  that  Saul  Kane,  the  drunken  blag- 

gard, 

Talking  to  little  Jimmy  Jaggard. 
The  drunken  blaggard  reeks  of  drink." 
" Whatever  will  his  mother  think?" 
"Wherever  has  his  mother  gone? 
Nip  round  to  Mrs.  Jaggard's,  John, 
And  say  her  Jimmy's  out  again, 
In  Market  place,  with  boozer  Kane.'* 
"When  he  come  out  to-day  he  staggered. 
O,  Jimmy  Jaggard,  Jimmy  Jaggard." 
"His  mother's  gone  inside  to  bargain, 
Run  in  and  tell  her,  Polly  Margin, 
And  tell  her  poacher  Kane  is  tipsy 
And  selling  Jimmy  to  a  gipsy." 
"Run  in  to  Mrs.  Jaggard,  Ellen, 
Or  else,  dear  knows,  there'll  be  no  tellin', 
And  don't  dare  leave  yer  till  you've  fount 

her, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  63 

You'll  find  her  at  the  linen  counter." 
I  told  a  tale,  to  Jim's  delight, 
Of  where  the  tom-cats  go  by  night, 
And  how  when  moonlight  come  they  went 
Among  the  chimneys  black  and  bent, 
From  roof  to  roof,  from  house  to  house, 
With  little  baskets  full  of  mouse 
All  red  and  white,  both  joint  and  chop 
Like  meat  out  of  a  butcher's  shop ; 
Then  all  along  the  wall  they  creep 
And  everyone  is  fast  asleep, 
And  honey-hunting  moths  go  by, 
And  by  the  bread-batch  crickets  cry ; 
Then  on  they  hurry,  never  waiting 
To  lawyer's  backyard  cellar  grating 
Where  Jaggard's  cat,  with  clever  paw, 
Unhooks  a  broke-brick's  secret  door ; 
Then  down  into  the  cellar  black, 
Across  the  wood  slug's  slimy  track, 
Into  an  old  cask's  quiet  hollow, 


64  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Where  they've  got  seats  for  what's  to  follow ; 

Then  each  tom-cat  lights  little  candles, 

And  0,  the  stories  and  the  scandals, 

And  0,  the  songs  and  Christmas  carols, 

And  0,  the  milk  from  little  barrels. 

They  light  a  fire  fit  for  roasting 

(And  how  good  mouse-meat  smells  when 

toasting), 

Then  down  they  sit  to  merry  feast 
While  moon  goes  west  and  sun  comes  east. 

Sometimes  they  make  so  merry  there 

Old  lawyer  come  to  head  of  stair 

To  'fend  with  fist  and  poker  took  firm 

His  parchments  channelled  by  the  bookworm, 

And  all  his  deeds,  and  all  his  packs 

Of  withered  ink  and  sealing  wax ; 

And  there  he  stands,  with  candle  raised, 

And  listens  like  a  man  amazed, 

Or  like  a  ghost  a  man  stands  dumb  at, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  65 

He  says,  "Hush!    Hush!     I'm  sure  there's 

summat." 

He  hears  outside  the  brown  owl  call, 
He  hears  the  death-tick  tap  the  wall, 
The  gnawing  of  the  wainscot  mouse, 
The  creaking  up  and  down  the  house, 
The  unhooked  window's  hinges  ranging, 
The  sounds  that  say  the  wind  is  changing. 
At  last  he  turns,  and  shakes  his  head, 
"It's  nothing,  I'll  go  back  to  bed." 


And  just  then  Mrs.  Jaggard  came 
To  view  and  end  her  Jimmy's  shame. 

She  made  one  rush  and  gi'm  a  bat 

And  shook  him  like  a  dog  a  rat. 

"I  can't  turn  round  but  what  you're  straying. 

I'll  give  you  tales  and  gipsy  playing. 

I'll  give  you  wand'ring  off  like  this 

And  listening  to  whatever  'tis, 


66  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

You'll  laugh  the  little  side  of  the  can, 
You'll  have  the  whip  for  this,  my  man ; 
And  not  a  bite  of  meat  nor  bread 
You'll  touch  before  you  go  to  bed. 
Some  day  you'll  break  your  mother's  heart, 
After  God  knows  she's  done  her  part, 
Working  her  arms  off  day  and  night 
Trying  to  keep  your  collars  white. 
Look  at  your  face,  too,  in  the  street. 
What  dirty  filth've  you  found  to  eat  ? 
Now  don't  you  blubber  here,  boy,  or 
I'll  give  you  sum't  to  blubber  for." 
She  snatched  him  off  from  where  we  stand 
And  knocked  the  pear-core  from  his  hand, 
And  looked  at  me,  "You  Devil's  limb, 
How  dare  you  talk  to  Jaggard's  Jim ; 
You  drunken,  poaching,  boozing  brute,  you, 
If  Jaggard  was  a  man  he'd  shoot  you." 
She  glared  all  this,  but  didn't  speak, 
She  gasped,  white  hollows  in  her  cheek ; 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  67 

Jimmy  was  writhing,  screaming  wild, 
The  shoppers  thought  I'd  killed  the  child. 

I  had  to  speak,  so  I  begun. 

"You'd  oughtn't  beat  your  little  son; 

He  did  no  harm,  but  seeing  him  there 

I  talked  to  him  and  gi'm  a  pear ; 

I'm  sure  the  poor  child  meant  no  wrong, 

It's  all  my  fault  he  stayed  so  long, 

He'd  not  have  stayed,  mum,  I'll  be  bound 

If  I'd  not  chanced  to  come  around. 

It's  all  my  fault  he  stayed,  not  his. 

I  kept  him  here,  that's  how  it  is." 

"Oh  !    And  how  dare  you,  then?"  says  she, 

"How  dare  you  tempt  my  boy  from  me ? 

How  dare  you  do't,  you  drunken  swine, 

Is  he  your  child  or  is  he  mine  ? 

A  drunken  sot  they've  had  the  beak  to, 

Has  got  his  dirty  whores  to  speak  to, 

His  dirty  mates  with  whom  he  drink, 


68  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Not  little  children,  one  would  think. 

Look  on  him,  there,"  she  says,  "look  on  him 

And  smell  the  stinking  gin  upon  him, 

The  lowest  sot,  the  drunknest  liar, 

The  dirtiest  dog  in  all  the  shire : 

Nice  friends  for  any  woman's  son 

After  ten  years,  and  all  she's  done. 

"  For  I've  had  eight,  and  buried  five, 
And  only  three  are  left  alive. 
I've  given  them  all  we  could  afford. 
I've  taught  them  all  to  fear  the  Lord. 
They've  had  the  best  we  had  to  give, 
The  only  three  the  Lord  let  live. 

"For  Minnie  whom  I  loved  the  worst 
Died  mad  in  childbed  with  her  first. 
And  John  and  Mary  died  of  measles, 
And  Rob  was  drownded  at  the  Teasels. 
And  little  Nan,  dear  little  sweet, 
A  cart  run  over  in  the  street ; 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  69 

Her  little  shift  was  all  one  stain, 
I  prayed  God  put  her  out  of  pain. 
And  all  the  rest  are  gone  or  going 
The  road  to  hell,  and  there's  no  knowing 
For  all  I've  done  and  all  I've  made  them 
I'd  better  not  have  overlaid  them. 
For  Susan  went  the  ways  of  shame 
The  time  the  'till'ry  regiment  came, 
And  t'have  her  child  without  a  father 
I  think  I'd  have  her  buried  rather. 
And  Dicky  boozes,  God  forgimme, 
And  now't's  to  be  the  same  with  Jimmy. 
And  all  I've  done  and  all  I've  bore 
Has  made  a  drunkard  and  a  whore, 
A  bastard  boy  who  wasn't  meant, 
And  Jimmy  gwine  where  Dicky  went ; 
For  Dick  began  the  self-same  way 
And  my  old  hairs  are  going  gray, 
And  my  poor  man's  a  withered  knee, 
And  all  the  burden  falls  on  me. 


70  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

"I've  washed  eight  little  children's  limbs, 

I've  taught  eight  little  souls  their  hymns, 

I've  risen  sick  and  lain  down  pinched 

And  borne  it  all  and  never  flinched ; 

But  to  see  him,  the  town's  disgrace, 

With  God's  commandments  broke  in's  face, 

Who  never  worked,  not  he,  nor  earned, 

Nor  will  do  till  the  seas  are  burned, 

Who  never  did  since  he  was  whole 

A  hand's  turn  for  a  human  soul, 

But  poached  and  stole  and  gone  with  women, 

And  swilled  down  gin  enough  to  swim  in, 

To  see  him  only  lift  one  finger 

To  make  my  little  Jimmy  linger. 

In  spite  of  all  his  mother's  prayers, 

And  all  her  ten  long  years  of  cares, 

And  all  her  broken  spirit's  cry 

That  drunkard's  finger  puts  them  by, 

And  Jimmy  turns.    And  now  I  see 

That  just  as  Dick  was,  Jim  will  be, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  71 

And  all  my  life  will  have  been  vain. 
I  might  have  spared  myself  the  pain, 
And  done  the  world  a  blessed  riddance 
If  I'd  a  drowned  'em  all  like  kittens. 
And  he  the  sot,  so  strong  and  proud, 
Who'd  make  white  shirts  of 's  mother's  shroud, 
He  laughs  now,  it's  a  joke  to  him, 
Though  it's  the  gates  of  hell  to  Jim. 

"I've  had  my  heart  burnt  out  like  coal, 
And  drops  of  blood  wrung  from  my  soul 
Day  in,  day  out,  in  pain  and  tears, 
For  five  and  twenty  wretched  years ; 
And  he,  he's  ate  the  fat  and  sweet, 
And  loafed  and  spat  at  top  of  street, 
And  drunk  and  leched  from  day  till  morrow, 
And  never  known  a  moment's  sorrow. 
He  come  out  drunk  from  th'  inn  to  look 
The  day  my  little  Nan  was  took ; 
He  sat  there  drinking,  glad  and  gay, 


72  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

The  night  my  girl  was  led  astray ; 

He  praised  my  Dick  for  singing  well, 

The  night  Dick  took  the  road  to  hell ; 

And  when  my  corpse  goes  stiff  and  blind, 

Leaving  four  helpless  souls  behind, 

He  will  be  there  still,  drunk  and  strong. 

It  do  seem  hard.     It  do  seem  wrong. 

But  'Woe  to  him  by  whom  the  offence,' 

Says  our  Lord  Jesus'  Testaments. 

Whatever  seems,  God  doth  not  slumber 

Though  he  lets  pass  times  without  number. 

He'll  come  with  trump  to  call  his  own, 

And  this  world's  way'll  be  overthrown. 

He'll  come  with  glory  and  with  fire 

To  cast  great  darkness  on  the  liar, 

To  burn  the  drunkard  and  the  treacher, 

And  do  his  judgment  on  the  lecher, 

To  glorify  the  spirits'  faces 

Of  those  whose  ways  were  stony  places, 

Who  chose  with  Ruth  the  better  part ; 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  73 

0  Lord,  I  see  Thee  as  Thou  art, 
0  God,  the  fiery  four-edged  sword, 
The  thunder  of  the  wrath  outpoured, 
The  fiery  four-faced  creatures  burning, 
And  all  the  four-faced  wheels  all  turning, 
Coming  with  trump  and  fiery  saint. 
Jim,  take  me  home,  I'm  turning  faint." 
They  went,  and  some  cried,  "Good  old  sod." 
"She  put  it  to  him  straight,  by  God." 


Summat  she  was,  or  looked,  or  said, 
Went  home  and  made  me  hang  my  head. 
I  slunk  away  into  the  night 
Knowing  deep  down  that  she  was  right. 
I'd  often  heard  religious  ranters, 
And  put  them  down  as  windy  canters, 
But  this  old  mother  made  me  see 
The  harm  I  done  by  being  me. 
Being  both  strong  and  given  to  sin 
I  'tracted  weaker  vessels  in. 


74  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

So  back  to  bar  to  get  more  drink, 

I  didn't  dare  begin  to  think, 

And  there  were  drinks  and  drunken  singing, 

As  though  this  life  were  dice  for  flinging ; 

Dice  to  be  flung,  and  nothing  furder, 

And  Christ's  blood  just  another  murder. 

"Come  on,  drinks  round,  salue,  drink  hearty, 

Now,  Jane,  the  punch-bowl  for  the  party. 

If  any  here  won't  drink  with  me 

I'll  knock  his  bloody  eyes  out.     See  ? 

Come  on,  cigars  round,  rum  for  mine, 

Sing  us  a  smutty  song,  some  swine." 

But  though  the  drinks  and  songs  went  round 

That  thought  remained,  it  was  not  drowned.  ^ 

And  when  I'd  rise  to  get  a  light 

I'd  think,  "What's  come  to  me  to-night ?" 

There's  always  crowds  when  drinks  are  stand- 
ing. 
The  house  doors  slammed  along  the  landing, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  75 

The  rising  wind  was  gusty  yet, 

And  those  who  came  in  late  were  wet ; 

And  all  my  body's  nerves  were  snappin' 

With  sense  of  summat  'bout  to  happen, 

And  music  seemed  to  come  and  go 

And  seven  lights  danced  in  a  row. 

There  used  to  be  a  custom  then, 

Miss  Bourne,  the  Friend,  went  round  at  ten 

To  all  the  pubs  in  all  the  place, 

To  bring  the  drunkards'  souls  to  grace ; 

Some  sulked,  of  course,  and  some  were  stirred, 

But  none  give  her  a  dirty  word. 

A  tall  pale  woman,  grey  and  bent, 

Folk  said  of  her  that  she  was  sent. 

She  wore  Friends'  clothes,  and  women  smiled, 

But  she'd  a  heart  just  like  a  child. 

She  come  to  us  near  closing  time 

When  we  were  at  some  smutty  rhyme, 

And  I  was  mad,  and  ripe  for  fun ; 

I  wouldn't  a  minded  what  I  done. 


76  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

So  when  she  come  so  prim  and  grey 

I  pound  the  bar  and  sing,  "Hooray, 

Here's  Quaker  come  to  bless  and  kiss  us, 

Come,  have  a  gin  and  bitters,  missus. 

Or  may  be  Quaker  girls  so  prim 

Would  rather  start  a  bloody  hymn. 

Now  Dick,  oblige.     A  hymn,  you  swine, 

Pipe  up  the  'Officer  of  the  Line,' 

A  song  to  make  one's  belly  ache, 

Or  'Nell  and  Roger  at  the  Wake/ 

Or  that  sweet  song,  the  talk  hi  town, 

'The  lady  fair  and  Abel  Brown.' 

*O,  who's  that  knocking  at  the  door/ 

Miss  Bourne'll  play  the  music  score." 

The  men  stood  dumb  as  cattle  are, 

They  grinned,  but  thought  I'd  gone  too  far, 

There  come  a  hush  and  no  one  break  it, 

They  wondered    how   Miss   Bourne  would 

take  it. 
She  up  to  me  with  black  eyes  wide, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  77 

She  looked  as  though  her  spirit  cried ; 
She  took  my  tumbler  from  the  bar 
Beside  where  all  the  matches  are 
And  poured  it  out  upon  the  floor  dust, 
Among  the  fag-ends,  spit  and  saw-dust. 

"Saul  Kane,"  she  said,  "when  next  you  drink, 
Do  me  the  gentleness  to  think 
That  every  drop  of  drink  accursed 
Makes  Christ  within  you  die  of  thirst, 
That  every  dirty  word  you  say 
Is  one  more  flint  upon  His  way, 
Another  thorn  about  His  head, 
Another  mock  by  where  He  tread, 
Another  nail,  another  cross. 
All  that  you  are  is  that  Christ's  loss." 
The  clock  run  down  and  struck  a  chime 
And  Mrs.  Si  said,  "Closing  time." 

The  wet  was  pelting  on  the  pane 
And  something  broke  inside  my  brain, 


78  TEE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

I  heard  the  rain  drip  from  the  gutters 

And  Silas  putting  up  the  shutters, 

While  one  by  one  the  drinkers  went ; 

I  got  a  glimpse  of  what  it  meant, 

How  she  and  I  had  stood  before 

In  some  old  town  by  some  old  door 

Waiting  intent  while  someone  knocked 

Before  the  door  for  ever  locked  ; 

She  was  so  white  that  I  was  scared, 

A  gas  jet,  turned  the  wrong  way,  flared, 

And  Silas  snapped  the  bars  in  place. 

Miss  Bourne  stood  white  and  searched  my  face. 

When  Silas  done,  with  ends  of  tunes 

He  'gan  a  gathering  the  spittoons, 

His  wife  primmed  lips  and  took  the  till. 

Miss  Bourne  stood  still  and  I  stood  still, 

And  "Tick.  Slow.  Tick.  Slow"  went  the  clock. 

She  said,  "He  waits  until  you  knock." 

She  turned  at  that  and  went  out  swift, 

Si  grinned  and  winked,  his  missus  sniffed. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  79 

I  heard  her  clang  the  Lion  door, 

I  marked  a  drink-drop  roll  to  floor ; 

It  took  up  scraps  of  sawdust,  furry, 

And  crinkled  on,  a  half  inch,  blurry ; 

A  drop  from  my  last  glass  of  gin ; 

And  someone  waiting  to  come  in, 

A  hand  upon  the  door  latch  gropen 

Knocking  the  man  inside  to  open. 

I  know  the  very  words  I  said, 

They  bayed  like  bloodhounds  in  my  head. 

"The  water's  going  out  to  sea 

And  there's  a  great  moon  calling  me ; 

But  there's  a  great  sun  calls  the  moon, 

And  all  God's  bells  will  carol  soon 

For  joy  and  glory  and  delight 

Of  someone  coming  home  to-night." 

Out  into  darkness,  out  to  night, 
My  flaring  heart  gave  plenty  light, 
So  wild  it  was  there  was  no  knowing 


80  THE  EVERLASTING  MEKCY 

Whether  the  clouds  or  stars  were  blowing ; 
Blown  chimney  pots  and  folk  blown  blind, 
And  puddles  glimmering  like  my  mind, 
And  chinking  glass  from  windows  banging, 
And  inn  signs  swung  like  people  hanging, 
And  in  my  heart  the  drink  unpriced, 
The  burning  cataracts  of  Christ. 

I  did  not  think,  I  did  not  strive, 

The  deep  peace  burnt  my  me  alive ; 

The  bolted  door  had  broken  in, 

I  knew  that  I  had  done  with  sin. 

I  knew  that  Christ  had  given  me  birth 

To  brother  all  the  souls  on  earth, 

And  every  bird  and  every  beast 

Should  share  the  crumbs  broke  at  the  feast. 

0  glory  of  the  lighted  mind. 

How  dead  I'd  been,  how  dumb,  how  blind. 

The  station  brook,  to  my  new  eyes, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  81 

Was  babbling  out  of  Paradise, 
The  waters  rushing  from  the  rain 
Were  singing  Christ  has  risen  again. 
I  thought  all  earthly  creatures  knelt 
From  rapture  of  the  joy  I  felt. 
The  narrow  station-wall's  brick  ledge, 
The  wild  hop  withering  in  the  hedge, 
The  lights  in  huntsman's  upper  storey 
Were  parts  of  an  eternal  glory, 
Were  God's  eternal  garden  flowers. 
I  stood  in  bliss  at  this  for  hours. 

O  glory  of  the  lighted  soul. 
The  dawn  came  up  on  Bradlow  Knoll, 
The  dawn  with  glittering  on  the  grasses, 
The  dawn  which  pass  and  never  passes. 

"It's  dawn,"  I  said,  "And  chimney's  smok- 
ing, 
And  all  the  blessed  fields  are  soaking. 


82  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

It's  dawn,  and  there's  an  engine  shunting  ; 
And  hounds,  for  huntsman's  going  hunting. 
It's  dawn,  and  I  must  wander  north 
Along  the  road  Christ  led  me  forth." 

So  up  the  road  I  wander  slow 

Past  where  the  snowdrops  used  to  grow 

With  celandines  in  early  springs, 

When  rainbows  were  triumphant  things 

And  dew  so  bright  and  flowers  so  glad, 

Eternal  joy  to  lass  and  lad. 

And  past  the  lovely  brook  I  paced, 

The  brook  whose  source  I  never  traced, 

The  brook,  the  one  of  two  which  rise 

In  my  green  dream  in  Paradise, 

In  wells  where  heavenly  buckets  clink 

To  give  God's  wandering  thirsty  drink 

By  those  clean  cots  of  carven  stone 

Where  the  clear  water  sings  alone. 

Then  down,  past  that  white-blossomed  pond, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  83 

And  past  the  chestnut  trees  beyond, 
And  past  the  bridge  the  fishers  knew, 
Where  yellow  flag  flowers  once  grew, 
Where  we'd  go  gathering  cops  of  clover, 
In  sunny  June  times  long  since  over. 
0  clover-cops  half  white,  half  red, 
O  beauty  from  beyond  the  dead. 
O  blossom,  key  to  earth  and  heaven, 
O  souls  that  Christ  has  new  forgiven. 

Then  down  the  hill  to  gipsies'  pitch 

By  where  the  brook  clucks  hi  the  ditch. 

A  gipsy's  camp  was  in  the  copse, 

Three  felted  tents,  with  beehive  tops, 

And   round   black  marks  where   fires  'had 

been, 

And  one  old  waggon  painted  green, 
And  three  ribbed  horses  wrenching  grass, 
And  three  wild  boys  to  watch  me  pass, 
And  one  old  woman  by  the  fire 


84  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Hulking  a  rabbit  warm  from  wire. 
I  loved  to  see  the  horses  bait. 
I  felt  I  walked  at  Heaven's  gate, 
That  Heaven's  gate  was  opened  wide 
Yet  still  the  gipsies  camped  outside. 
The  waste  souls  will  prefer  the  wild, 

Long  after  life  is  meek  and  mild. 

-> 

Perhaps  when  man  has  entered  in 

His  perfect  city  free  from  sin, 
The  campers  will  come  past  the  walls 
With  old  lame  horses  full  of  galls, 
And  waggons  hung  about  with  withies, 
And  burning  coke  in  tinker's  stithies, 
And  see  the  golden  town,  and  choose, 
And  think  the  wild  too  good  to  lose. 
And  camp  outside,  as  these  camped  then 
With  wonder  at  the  entering  men. 
So  past,  and  past  the  stone  heap  white 
That  dewberry  trailers  hid  from  sight, 
And  down  the  field  so  full  of  springs, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  85 

Where  mewing  peewits  clap  their  wings, 
And  past  the  trap  made  for  the  mill 
Into  the  field  below  the  hill. 
There  was  a  mist  along  the  stream, 
A  wet  mist,  dim,  like  in  a  dream ; 
I  heard  the  heavy  breath  of  cows, 
And  waterdrops  from  th 'alder  boughs ; 
And  eels,  or  snakes,  in  dripping  grass, 
Whipping  aside  to  let  me  pass. 
The  gate  was  backed  against  the  ryme 
To  pass  the  cows  at  milking  time. 
And  by  the  gate  as  I  went  out 
A  moldwarp  rooted  earth  wi's  snout. 
A  few  steps  up  the  Callows'  Lane 
Brought  me  above  the  mist  again, 
The  two  great  fields  arose  like  death 
Above  the  mists  of  human  breath. 

All  earthly  things  that  blessed  morning 
Were  everlasting  joy  and  warning. 


86  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

The  gate  was  Jesus'  way  made  plain, 
The  mole  was  Satan  foiled  again, 
Black  blinded  Satan  snouting  way 
Along  the  red  of  Adam's  clay ; 
The  mist  was  error  and  damnation, 
The  lane  the  road  unto  salvation. 
Out  of  the  mist  into  the  light, 
0  blessed  gift  of  inner  sight. 
The  past  was  faded  like  a  dream ; 
There  come  the  jingling  of  a  team, 
A  ploughman's  voice,  a  clink  of  chain, 
Slow  hoofs,  and  harness  under  strain. 
Up  the  slow  slope  a  team  came  bowing, 
Old  Callow  at  his  autumn  ploughing, 
Old  Callow,  stooped  above  the  hales, 
Ploughing  the  stubble  into  wales. 
His  grave  eyes  looking  straight  ahead, 
Shearing  a  long  straight  furrow  red ; 
His  plough-foot  high  to  give  it  earth 
To  bring  new  food  for  men  to  birth. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  87 

0  wet  red  swathe  of  earth  laid  bare, 
O  truth,  O  strength,  O  gleaming  share, 
0  patient  eyes  that  watch  the  goal, 
O  ploughman  of  the  sinner's  soul. 

0  Jesus,  drive  the  coulter  deep 

To  plough  my  living  man  from  sleep. 

Slow  up  the  hill  the  plough  team  plod, 

Old  Callow  at  the  task  of  God, 

Helped  by  man's  wit,  helped  by  the  brute, 

Turning  a  stubborn  clay  to  fruit, 

His  eyes  forever  on  some  sign 

To  help  him  plough  a  perfect  line. 

At  top  of  rise  the  plough  team  stopped, 

The  fore-horse  bent  his  head  and  cropped. 

Then  the  chains  chack,  the  brasses  jingle, 

The  lean  reins  gather  through  the  cringle, 

The  figures  move  against  the  sky, 

The  clay  wave  breaks  as  they  go  by. 

1  kneeled  there  in  the  muddy  fallow, 


88  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

I  knew  that  Christ  was  there  with  Callow, 
That  Christ  was  standing  there  with  me, 
That  Christ  had  taught  me  what  to  be, 
That  I  should  plough,  and  as  I  ploughed 
My  Saviour  Christ  would  sing  aloud, 
And  as  I  drove  the  clods  apart 
Christ  would  be  ploughing  in  my  heart, 
Through  rest-harrow  and  bitter  roots, 
Through  all  my  bad  life's  rotten  fruits. 

0  Christ  who  holds  the  open  gate, 

0  Christ  who  drives  the  furrow  straight, 

0  Christ,  the  plough,  0  Christ,  the  laughter 

Of  holy  white  birds  flying  after, 

Lo,  all  my  heart's  field  red  and  torn, 

And  Thou  wilt  bring  the  young  green  corn, 

The  young  green  corn  divinely  springing, 

The  young  green  corn  forever  singing ; 

And  when  the  field  is  fresh  and  fair 

Thy  bless&i  feet  shall  glitter  there, 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  89 

And  we  will  walk  the  weeded  field, 
And  tell  the  golden  harvest's  yield, 
The  corn  that  makes  the  holy  bread 
By  which  the  soul  of  man  is  fed, 
The  holy  bread,  the  food  unpriced, 
Thy  everlasting  mercy,  Christ. 

The  share  will  jar  on  many  a  stone, 
Thou  wilt  not  let  me  stand  alone ; 
And  I  shall  feel  (thou  wilt  not  fail), 
Thy  hand  on  mine  upon  the  hale. 
Near  Bullen  Bank,  on  Gloucester  Road, 
Thy  everlasting  mercy  showed 
The  ploughman  patient  on  the  hill 
Forever  there,  forever  still, 
Ploughing  the  hill  with  steady  yoke 
Of  pine-trees  lightning-struck  and  broke. 
I've  marked  the  May  Hill  ploughman  stay 
There  on  his  hill,  day  after  day 
Driving  his  team  against  the  sky, 


90  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

While  men  and  women  live  and  die. 
And  now  and  then  he  seems  to  stoop 
To  clear  the  coulter  with  the  scoop, 
Or  touch  an  ox  to  haw  or  gee 
While  Severn  stream  goes  out  to  sea. 

The  sea  with  all  her  ships  and  sails, 

A 
And  that  great  smoky  port  in  Wales, 

And  Gloucester  tower  bright  i'  the  sun, 

All  know  that  patient  wandering  one. 

And  sometimes  when  they  burn  the  leaves 

The  bonfires'  smoking  trails  and  heaves, 

And  girt  red  flames  twink  and  twire 

As  though  he  ploughed  the  hill  afire. 

And  in  men's  hearts  in  many  lands 

A  spiritual  ploughman  stands 

Forever  waiting,  waiting  now, 

The  heart's  "Put  in,  man,  zook  the  plough." 

By  this  the  sun  was  all  one  glitter, 
The  little  birds  were  all  in  twitter ; 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  91 

Out  of  a  tuft  a  little  lark 
Went  higher  up  than  I  could  mark, 
His  little  throat  was  all  one  thirst 
To  sing  until  his  heart  should  burst 
To  sing  aloft  in  golden  light 
His  song  from  blue  air  out  of  sight. 
The  mist  drove  by,  and  now  the  cows 
Came  plodding  up  to  milking  house. 
Followed  by  Frank,  the  Callows'  cowman, 
Who  whistled  "Adam  was  a  ploughman." 
There  come  such  cawing  from  the  rooks, 
Such  running  chuck  from  little  brooks, 
One  thought  it  March,  just  budding  green, 
With  hedgerows  full  of  celandine. 
An  otter  'out  of  stream  and  played, 
Two  hares  come  loping  up  and  stayed ; 
Wide-eyed  and  tender-eared  but  bold. 
Sheep  bleated  up  by  Penny's  fold. 
I  heard  a  partridge  covey  call, 
The  morning  sun  was  bright  on  all. 


92  THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY 

Down  the  long  slope  the  plough  team  drove 
The  tossing  rooks  arose  and  hove. 
A  stone  struck  on  the  share.    A  word 
Came  to  the  team.     The  red  earth  stirred. 

I  crossed  the  hedge  by  shooter's  gap, 
I  hitched  my  boxer's  belt  a  strap, 
I  jumped  the  ditch  and  crossed  the  fallow : 
I  took  the  hales  from  farmer  Callow. 


How  swift  the  summer  goes, 
Forget-me-not,  pink,  rose. 
The  young  grass  when  I  started 
And  now  the  hay  is  carted, 
And  now  my  song  is  ended, 
And  all  the  summer  spended ; 
The  blackbird's  second  brood 
Routs  beech  leaves  in  the  wood ; 
The  pink  and  rose  have  speeded, 
Forget-me-not  has  seeded. 


THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY  93 

Only  the  winds  that  blew, 
The  rain  that  makes  things  new, 
The  earth  that  hides  things  old, 
And  blessings  manifold. 

0  lovely  lily  clean, 
O  lily  springing  green, 
O  lily  bursting  white, 
Dear  lily  of  delight, 
Spring  in  my  heart  agen 
That  I  may  flower  to  men. 

GREAT  HAMPDEN.  June,  1911. 


NOTE 

"The  Everlasting  Mercy"  first  appeared 
in  The  English  Review  for  October,  1911.  I 
thank  the  Editor  and  Proprietors  of  that 
paper  for  permitting  me  to  reprint  it  here. 
The  persons  and  events  described  in  the  poem 
are  entirely  imaginary,  and  no  reference  is 
made  or  intended  to  any  living  person. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 


DAUBER 

I 

FOUR  bells  were  struck,  the  watch  was  called 

on  deck, 

All  work  aboard  was  over  for  the  hour, 
And    some    men    sang    and    others    played 

at  check, 
Or  mended  clothes  or  watched  the  sunset 

glower. 
The    bursting    west    was    like    an    opening 

j 
Q 

flower, 
And  one  man  watched  it  till  the  light  was 

dim, 
But  no  one  went  across  to  talk  to  him. 

He  was   the  painter   in  that    swift   ship's 

crew, 
Lampman  and  painter  —  tall,  a  slight-built 

man, 

05 


96  DAUBER 

Young  for  his  years,  and  not  yet  twenty- 
two; 

Sickly,  and  not  yet  brown  with  the  sea's  tan. 

Bullied  and  damned  at  since  the  voyage 
began, 

"Being    neither   man   nor   seaman   by   his 

taUy/>  *****?*  II 

He  bunked  with  the  idlers  just  abaft  the 
galley. 

His  work  began  at  five ;  he  worked  all  day, 
Keeping  no  watch  and  having  all  night  in. 
His  work  was  what  the  mate  might  care  to 

say; 

He  mixed  red  lead  in  many  a  bouilli  tin  ; 
His  dungarees  were  smeared  with  paraffin. 
"Go  drown  himself"  his  round-house  mates 

advised  him, 
And  all  hands  called  him  "Dauber"'   and 

despised  him. 


DAUBER  9T 

Si,  the  apprentice,  stood  beside  the  spar, 
Stripped  to  the  waist,  a  basin  at  his  side, 
Slushing  his  hands  to  get  away  the  tar, 
And  then  he  washed  himself  and  rinsed  and 

dried; 
Towelling    his    face,    hair-towzelled,    eager 

eyed, 
He  crossed  the  spar  to  Dauber,  and  there 

stood 
Watching  the  gold  of  heaven  turn  to  blood. 

They  stood  there  by  the  rail  while  the  swift 

ship 
Tore  on  out  of  the  tropics,  straining  her 

sheets, 

Whitening  her  trackway  to  a  milky  strip, 
Dim  with  green  bubbles  and  twisted  water 

meets, 
Her  clacking    tackle    tugged    at   pins   and 

cleats, 


98  DAUBER 

Her  great  sails  bellied  stiff,  her  great  masts 

leaned : 
They  watched  how  the  seas  struck  and  burst 

and  greened. 

Si   talked   with   Dauber,   standing   by   the 

side. 
"Why  did  you  come  to  sea,  painter?"  he 

said. 

"I  want  to  be  a  painter,"  he  replied, 
"And  know  the  sea  and  ships  from  A  to  Z, 
And  paint  great  ships  at  sea  before  I'm  dead ; 
Ships    under    skysails    running    down    the 

Trade  — 
Ships   and   the   sea;  there's   nothing   finer 

made. 

"But  there's  so  much  to  learn,  with  sails 

and  ropes, 
And  how  the  sails  look,  full  or  being  furled, 


DAUBER  99 

And  how  the  lights  change  in  the  troughs 

and  slopes, 
And   the  sea's   colours  up  and   down   the 

world, 
And  how  a  storm  looks  when  the  sprays 

are  hurled 

High  as  the  yard  (they  say)  I  want  to  see ; 
There's  none  ashore  can  teach  such  things 

to  me. 

"And  then  the  men  and  rigging,  and  the  way 
Ships  move,   running  or  beating,   and   the 

poise 

At  the  roll's  end,  the  checking  in  the  sway  — 
I  want  to  paint  them  perfect,  short  of  the 

noise ; 

And  then  the  life,  the  half-decks  full  of  boys, 
The  foVsles  with  the  men  there,  dripping 

wet: 
I  know  the  subjects  that  I  want  to  get. 


100  DAUBER 

"It's  not  been  done,  the  sea,  not  yet  been 

done, 

From  the  inside,  by  one  who  really  knows ; 
I'd  give  up  all  if  I  could  be  the  one, 
But   art   comes   dear  the  way  the  money 

goes. 

So  I  have  come  to  sea,  and  I  suppose 
Three  years  will  teach  me  all  I  want  to  learn 
And  make  enough  to  keep  me  till  I  earn." 

Even  as  he  spoke  his  busy  pencil  moved, 
Drawing  the  leap  of  water  off  the  side 
Where    the    great    clipper    trampled    iron- 

hooved, 

Making  the  blue  hills  of  the  sea  divide, 
Shearing  a  glittering  scatter  in  her  stride, 
And  leaping  on  full  tilt  with  all  sails  draw- 
ing, 

Proud  as  a  war-horse,  snuffing  battle,  paw- 
ing. 


DAUBER  101 

"I  cannot  get  it  yet  —  not  yet,"  he  said; 
"That  leap  and  light,  and  sudden  change 

to  green, 

And  all  the  glittering  from  the  sunset's  red, 
And   the   milky   colours   where   the   bursts 

have  been, 

And  then  the  clipper  striding  like  a  queen 
Over  it  all,  all  beauty  to  the  crown. 
I  see  it  all,  I  cannot  put  it  down. 

"It's  hard   not   to   be   able.    There,   look 

there ! 

I  cannot  get  the  movement  nor  the  light; 
Sometimes  it  almost  makes  a  man  despair 
To  try  and  try  and  never  get  it  right. 
Oh,  if  I  could  —  oh,  if  I  only  might, 
I  wouldn't  mind  what  hells   I'd  have  to 

pass, 
Not  if  the  whole  world  called  me  fool  and 

ass." 


102  DAUBER 

Down  sank  the  crimson  sun  into  the  sea, 

The  wind  cut  chill  at  once,  the  west  grew 
dun. 

"Out  sidelights!"  called  the  mate.  "Hi, 
where  is  he?" 

The  Boatswain  called,  "Out  sidelights,  damn 
you!  Run!" 

"He's  always  late  or  lazing,"  murmured 
one  — 

"The  Dauber,  with  his  sketching."  Soon 
the  tints 

Of  red  and  green  passed  on  dark  water- 
glints. 

Darker  it  grew,  still  darker,  and  the  stars 
Burned  golden,  and  the  fiery  fishes  came. 
The  wire-note  loudened  from  the  straining 

spars; 
The   sheet-blocks   clacked   together   always 

the  same; 


DAUBER  103 

The  rushing  fishes  streaked  the  seas  with 

flame, 

Racing  the  one  speed  noble  as  their  own: 
What  unknown  joy  was  in  those  fish  un- 
known ! 

Just  by  the  round-house  door,  as  it  grew  dark, 
The   Boatswain   caught   the   Dauber  with, 

"Now,  you; 
Till  now  I've  spared  you,  damn  you !  now 

you  hark : 

I've  just  had  hell  for  what  you  didn't  do; 
I'll  have  you  broke  and  sent  among  the 

crew 

If  you  get  me  more  trouble  by  a  particle. 
Don't    you    forget,    you    daubing,    useless 

article  ! 

"You  thing,  you  twice-laid  thing  from  Port 
Mahon!" 


104  DAUBER 

Then  came  the  Cook's  "Is  that  the  Dauber 

there  ? 
Why  don't  you  leave  them  stinking  paints 

alone  ? 

They  stink  the  house  out,  poisoning  all  the  air. 
Just   take  them  out."     "Where  to?"     "I 

don't  care  where. 
I  won't  have  stinking  paint  here."    From 

then*  plates: 
"That's   right;     wet   paint   breeds   fever," 

growled  his  mates. 

He  took  his  still  wet  drawings  from  the 

berth 
And  climbed  the  ladder  to  the  deck-house 

top; 

Beneath,  the  noisy  half-deck  rang  with  mirth, 
For  two  ship's  boys  were   putting  on  the 

strop : 
One,  clambering  up  to  let  the  skylight  drop, 


DAUBER  105 

Saw  him  bend  down  beneath  a  boat  and  lay 
His  drawings  there,  till  all  were  hid  away, 

And  stand  there  silent,  leaning  on  the  boat, 
Watching  the  constellations  rise  and  burn, 
Until  the  beauty  took  him  by  the  throat, 
So  stately  is  their  glittering  overturn; 
Armies  of  marching  eyes,  armies  that  yearn 
With  banners  rising  and  falling,  and  pass- 
ing by 
Over  the  empty  silence  of  the  sky. 

The  Dauber  sighed  there  looking  at  the  sails, 
Wind-steadied  arches  leaning  on  the  night, 
The  high  trucks  traced  on  heaven  and  left 

no  trails; 
The   moonlight   made   the   topsails   almost 

white, 
The  passing  sidelight  seemed  to  drip  green 

light. 


106  DAUBER 

And  on  the  clipper  rushed  with  fire-bright 

bows ; 
He  sighed,  "I'll  never  do't,"  and  left  the 

house. 

"Now,"  said  the  reefer,  "up  !    Come,  Sam; 

come,  Si, 
Dauber's  been  hiding  something."    Up  they 

slid, 

Treading  on  naked  tiptoe  stealthily 
To  grope  for  treasure  at  the  long-boat  skid. 
"Drawings!"    said    Sam.    "Is    this    what 

Dauber  hid? 

Lord !    I  expected  pudding,  not  this  rot. 
Still,  come,  we'll  have  some  fun  with  what 

we've  got." 

They  smeared    the   paint  with   turpentine 

until 
They  could  remove  with  mess-clouts  every 

trace 


DAUBER  107 

Of    quick    perception    caught    by    patient 

skill, 
And  lines  that  had  brought  blood  into  his  ' 

face. 

They  wiped  the  pigments  off,  and  did  erase, 

loll- 
With  knives,  all  sticking  clots.    When  they 

.      j  M^,-- 
had  done. 

Under  the  boat  they  laid  them  every  one. 


All  he  had  drawn  since  first  he  came  to  sea, 
His  six  weeks'  leisure  fruits,  they  laid  them 

there. 
They   chuckled    then   to   think   how   mad 

he'd  be 

Finding  his  paintings  vanished  into  air. 
Eight    bells    were    struck,    and    feet    from 

everywhere 

Went  shuffling  aft  to  muster  in  the  dark; 
The  mate's  pipe  glowed  above,  a  dim  red 

spark. 


108  DAUBER 

Names  in  the  darkness  passed  and  voices 

cried; 
The  red  spark  glowed  and  died,  the  faces 

seemed 
As  things  remembered  when   a   brain   has 

died, 

To  all  but  high  intenseness  deeply  dreamed. 
Like  hissing  spears  the  fishes'  fire  streamed, 
And  on  the  clipper  rushed  with  tossing 

mast, 
A  bath  of  flame  broke  round  her  as  she 

passed. 

The  watch  was  set,  the  night  came,  and 

the  men 
Hid  from  the  moon  in  shadowed  nooks  to 

sleep, 
Bunched  like  the  dead;  still,  like  the  dead, 

as  when 
Plague  in  a  city  leaves  none  even  to  weep. 


DAUBER  109 

The  ship's  track  brightened  to  a  mile- 
broad  sweep ; 

The  mate  there  felt  her  pulse,  and  eyed 
the  spars: 

South-west  by  south  she  staggered  under 
the  stars. 

Down  in  his  bunk  the  Dauber  lay  awake 
Thinking  of  his  unfitness  for  the  sea. 
Each  failure,  each  derision,  each  mistake, 
There  in  the  life  not  made  for  such  as  he; 
A  morning  grim  with  trouble  sure  to  be, 
A  noon  of  pain  from  failure,  and  a  night 
Bitter  with  men's  contemning  and  despite. 

This  in  the  first  beginning,  the  green  leaf, 
Still  in  the  Trades  before  bad  weather  fell; 
What  harvest  would  he  reap  of  hate  and 

grief 
When  the  loud  Horn  made  every  life  a  hell  ? 


110  DAUBER 

When  the  sick  ship  lay  over,  clanging  her 
bell, 

And  no  time  came  for  painting  or  for  draw- 
ing, 

But  all  hands  fought,  and  icy  death  came 
clawing  ? 

Hell,   he  expected,  —  hell.    His  eyes  grew 

blind  ; 
The   snoring   from   his   messmates   droned 

and  snuffled, 

And  then  a  gush  of  pity  calmed  his  mind. 
The    cruel    torment    of    his    thought    was 

muffled, 
Without,    on    deck,    an    old,    old,    seaman 

shuffled, 
Humming  his  song,  and  through  the  open 

door 
A  moonbeam  moved  and  thrust  along  the 

floor. 


DAUBER  111 

The  green  bunk  curtains  moved,  the  brass 
rings  clicked, 

The  Cook  cursed  in  his  sleep,  turning  and 
turning, 

The  moonbeams'  moving  finger  touched 
and  picked, 

And  all  the  stars  in  all  the  sky  were  burn- 
ing. 

"This  is  the  art  I've  come  for,  and  am 
learning, 

The  sea  and  ships  and  men  and  travelling 
things. 

It  is  most  proud,  whatever  pain  it  brings." 

He  leaned  upon  his  arm  and  watched  the 

light 

Sliding  and  fading  to  the  steady  roll; 
This  he  would  some  day  paint,   the  ship 

at  night, 
And  sleeping  seamen  tired  to  the  soul; 


112  DAUBER 

The  space  below  the  bunks  as  black  as  coal, 
Gleams  upon  chests,  upon  the  unlit  lamp, 
The    ranging    door   hook,    and    the    locker 
clamp. 

This  he  would  paint,  and  that,  and  all  these 

scenes, 
And    proud    ships    carrying  on,   and    men 

their  minds, 

And  blues  of  rollers  toppling  into  greens, 
And  shattering  into  white  that  bursts  and 

blinds, 
And    scattering    ships    running    erect    like 

hinds, 

And  men  in  oilskins  beating  down  a  sail 
High  on  the  yellow  yard,  in  snow,  in  hail. 

With  faces  ducked  down  from  the  slant- 
ing drive 

Of  half-thawed  hail  mixed  with  half-frozen 
spray, 


DAUBER  113 

The  roaring  canvas  like  a  thing  alive, 
Shaking   the   mast,    knocking   their   hands 

away, 

The  foot-ropes  jerking  to  the  tug  and  sway, 
The  savage  eyes  salt-reddened  at  the  rims, 
And  icicles  on  the  south-wester  brims. 

And  sunnier  scenes  would  grow  under  his 

brush, 
The  tropic  dawn  with  all  things  dropping 

dew, 

The  darkness  and  the  wonder  and  the  hush, 
The  insensate  grey  before  the  marvel  grew; 
Then  the  veil  lifted  from  the  trembling  blue, 
The  walls  of  sky  burst  in,  the  flower,  the 

rose, 
All  the  expanse  of  heaven  a  mind  that  glows. 

He  turned  out  of  his  bunk;  the  Cook  still 
tossed, 


114  DAUBER 

One  of  the  other  two  spoke  in  his  sleep. 
A  cockroach  scuttled  where  the  moonbeam 

crossed  ; 
Outside  there  was  the  ship,  the  night,  the 

deep. 
"It  is  worth   while,"   the  youth   said;  "I 

will  keep 

To  my  resolve,  I'll  learn  to  paint  all  this. 
My  Lord,  my  God,  how  beautiful  it  is!" 

Outside  was  the  ship's  rush  to  the  wind's 

hurry, 

A  resonant  wire-hum  from  every  rope, 
The  broadening  bow-wash  in  a  fiery  flurry, 
The  leaning  masts  in  their  majestic  slope, 
And    all    things    strange    with    moonlight: 

filled  with  hope 

By  all  that  beauty  going  as  man  bade, 
He  turned  and  slept  in  peace.    Eight  bells 

were  made. 

TV-K   *-V^~      V      *^  * 


DAUBER  115 

II 

NEXT  day  was  Sunday,  his   free  painting 

day, 
While   the   fine   weather   held,   from  eight 

till  eight. 

He  rose  when  called  at  five,  and  did  array 
The  round-house  gear,  and  set  the  kit-bags 

straight ; 
Then  kneeling  down,  like  housemaid  at  a 

grate, 
He  scrubbed  the  deck  with  sand  until  his 

knees 
Were  blue  with  dye  from  his  wet  dungarees. 

Soon  all  was  clean,  his  Sunday  tasks  were 

done; 

His  day  was  clear  for  painting  as  he  chose. 
The    wetted    decks    were    drying    in    the 

sun, 


116  DAUBER 

The  men  coiled  up,  or  swabbed,  or  sought 

repose. 

The  drifts  of  silver  arrows  fell  and  rose 
As    flying    fish  took  wing;    the    breakfast 

passed, 
Wasting  good  time,  but  he  was  free  at  last. 

Free  for  two  hours  and  more  to  tingle  deep, 
Catching  a  likeness  in  a  line  or  tint, 
The  canvas  running  up  in  a  proud  sweep, 
Wind-wrinkled    at    the    clews,    and    white 

like  lint, 

The  glittering  of  the  blue  waves  into  glint; 
Free  to   attempt  it   all,   the  proud  ship's 

pawings, 
The  sea,  the  sky  —  he  went  to  fetch  his 

drawings. 

Up    to    the    deck-house    top    he    quickly 
climbed, 


DAUBER  H7 

He  stooped  to  find  them  underneath  the 

boat. 

He  found  them  all  obliterated,  slimed, 
Blotted,   erased,   gone  from  him   line  and 

note. 
They  were  all  spoiled:  a  lump  came  in  his 

throat, 
Being   vain    of   his   attempts,    and   tender 

skinned  — 
Beneath     the     skylight     watching     reefers 

grinned. 

He    clambered    down,    holding    the  ruined 

things. 
" Bosun,"   he  called,   "look  here,   did  you 

do  these: 
Wipe   off   my   paints   and   cut   them   into 

strings, 
And  smear  them  till  you  can't  tell  chalk 

from  cheese? 


118  DAUBER 

Don't  stare,  but  did  you  do  it?    Answer, 

please." 
The  Bosun  turned:  "I'll  give  you  a  thick 

ear! 
Do  it?      I  didn't.      Get  to  hell  from  here ! 

"I  touch  your  stinking  daubs?  The 
Dauber's  daft." 

A  crowd  was  gathering  now  to  hear  the 
fun; 

The  reefers  tumbled  out,  the  men  laid  aft, 

The  Cook  blinked,  cleaning  a  mess  kid  in 
the  sun. 

"What's  up  with  Dauber  now?"  said  every- 
one. 

"Someone  has  spoiled  my  drawings  —  look 
at  this!" 

"Well,  that's  a  dirty  trick,  by  God,  it  is !" 

"It  is,"  said  Sam,  "a  low-down  dirty  trick, 


DAUBER  119 

To  spoil  a  fellow's  work  in  such  a  way, 
And  if  you  catch  him,  Dauber,  punch  him 

sick, 

For  he  deserves  it,  be  he  who  he  may." 
A  seaman  shook  his  old  head  wise  and  grey. 
"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "who  ain't  no 

judge, 
Them    drawings    look    much    better    now 

they're  smudge." 

"Where  were  they,  Dauber?    On  the  deck- 
house?   Where?" 

"Under  the  long-boat,  in  a  secret  place." 
"The  blackguard  must  have  seen  you  put 

them  there. 

He  is  a  swine !    I  tell  him  to  his  face : 
I  didn't  think  we'd  anyone  so  base." 
"Nor   I,"   said   Dauber.    "There   was   six 

weeks'  time 
Just  wasted  in  these  drawings :  it's  a  crime  !" 


120  DAUBER 

"Well,  don't  you  say  we  did  it,"  growled 
his  mates, 

"And  as  for  crime,  be  damned !  the  things 
were  smears  — 

Best  overboard,  like  you,  with  shot  for 
weights ; 

Thank  God  they're  gone,  and  now  go  shake 
your  ears." 

The  Dauber  listened,  very  near  to  tears. 

"Dauber,  if  I  were  you,"  said  Sam  again, 

"I'd  aft,  and  see  the  Captain  and  com- 
plain." 

A  sigh  came  from  the  assembled  seamen 

there. 

Would  he   be  such  a  fool  for  their  delight 
As    go    to    tell    the    Captain?    Would  he 

dare? 
And  would  the  thunder  roar,  the  lightning 

smite? 


DAUBER  121 

There  was  the  Captain  come  to  take  a  sight, 
Handling  his  sextant  by  the  chart-house  aft. 
The   Dauber   turned,   the   seamen   thought 
him  daft. 

The  Captain  took  his  sights  —  a  mate  be- 
low 

Noted  the  times;  they  shouted  to  each 
other, 

The  Captain  quick  with  "Stop,"  the  answer 
slow, 

Repeating  slowly  one  height  then  another. 

The  swooping  clipper  stumbled  through 
the  smother, 

The  ladder  brasses  in  the  sunlight  burned, 

The  Dauber  waited  till  the  Captain  turned. 

There  stood  the  Dauber,  humbled  to  the 

bone, 
Waiting  to  speak.     The  Captain  let  him  wait, 


122  DAUBER 

Glanced  at  the  course,  and  called  in  even 

tone, 
"What    is    the  man    there  wanting,  Mr. 

Mate?" 

The  logship  clattered  on  the  grating  straight, 
The    reel   rolled   to    the    scuppers   with   a 

clatter, 
The    Mate    came    grim:      "Well,    Dauber, 

what's  the  matter?" 

"Please,    sir,    they   spoiled   my   drawings." 

"Who  did?"     "They." 
"Who's  they?"     "I  don't  quite  know,  sir." 

"Don't  quite  know,  sir? 
Then  why  are  you  aft  to  talk  about  it,  hey  ? 
Whom   d'you    complain   of?"     "No   one." 

"No  one?"     "No,  sir." 
"Well,  then,  go  forward  till  you've  found 

them.    Go,  sir. 
If  you  complain  of  someone,  then  I'll  see. 


DAUBER  123 

Now  get  to  hell !  and  don't  come  bothering 
me." 

"But,  sir,  they  washed  them  off,  and  some 

they  cut. 
Look   here,   sir,   how   they   spoiled   them." 

"Never  mind. 

Go  shove  your  head  inside  the  scuttle  butt, 
And  that  will  make  you  cooler.  You  will  find 
Nothing  like  water  when  you're  mad  and 

blind. 
Where  were  the  drawings?  in  your  chest, 

or  where?" 
"Under    the    long-boat,  sir;    I   put    them 

there." 

"Under   the   long-boat,    hey?    Now   mind 

your  tip. 
I'll  have  the  skids  kept  clear  with  nothing 

round  them; 


124  DAUBER 

The  long-boat  ain't  a  store  in  this  here  ship. 
Lucky  for  you  it  wasn't  I  who  found  them. 
If  I  had  seen  them,  Dauber,  I'd  have  drowned 

them. 
Now  you  be  warned  by  this.      I  tell  you 

plain  — 
Don't    stow   your   brass-rags   under   boats 

again. 

"Go  forward  to  your  berth."    The  Dauber 

turned. 
The  listeners  down  below  them  winked  and 

smiled, 
Knowing    how  red    the    Dauber's   temples 

burned, 

Having  lost  the  case  about  his  only  child. 
His  work  was  done  to  nothing  and  denied, 
And  there  was  no  redress :  the  Captain's  voice 
Spoke,  and  called  "Painter,"  making  him 

rejoice. 


DAUBER  125 

The  Captain  and  the  Mate  conversed  to- 
gether. 
"Drawings,  you  tell  me,  Mister?"    "Yes, 

sir ;  views : 
Wiped  off  with  turps,  I  gather  that's  his 

blether. 
He  says  they're  things  he  can't  afford  to 

lose. 
He's   Dick,   who   came  to  sea  in   dancing 

shoes, 
And  found  the  dance  a  bear  dance.    They 

were  hidden 
Under  the  long-boat's  chocks,   which  I've 

forbidden." 

"Wiped  off  with  turps?"  The  Captain 
sucked  his  lip. 

"Who  did  it,  Mister?"  "Reefers,  I  sup- 
pose; 

Them  devils  do  the  most  pranks  in  a  ship; 


126  DAUBER 

The  round-house  might  have  done  it,  Cook 

or  Bose." 

"I  can't  take  notice  of  it  till  he  knows. 
How  does  he  do  his  work?"     "Well,  no 

offence ; 
He  tries;    he  does  his  best.    He's  got  no 

sense." 

" Painter,"  the  Captain  called;  the  Dauber 

came. 
"What's  all  this  talk  of  drawings?    What's 

the  matter?" 
"They  spoiled  my  drawings,  sir."     "Well, 

who's  to  blame? 
The  long-boat's  there  for  no  one  to  get  at 

her; 
You  broke  the  rules,  and  if  you  choose  to 

scatter 

Gear  up  and  down  where  it's  no  right  to  be, 
And  suffer  as  result,  don't  come  to  me. 


DAUBER  127 

"Your   place   is   in   the   round-house,  and 

your  gear 
Belongs   where   you   belong.    Who   spoiled 

your  things? 
Find  out  who  spoiled  your  things  and  fetch 

him  here." 

"But,  sir,  they  cut  the  canvas  into  strings." 
"I  want  no  argument  nor  questionings. 
Go  back  where  you  belong  and  say  no  more, 
And  please  remember  that  you're  not  on 

shore." 

The  Dauber  touched  his  brow  and  slunk 
away- 

They  eyed  his  going  with  a  bitter  eye.^ 

"Dauber,"  said  Sam,  "what  did  the  Cap- 
tain say?" 

The  Dauber  drooped  his  head  without 
reply. 

"Go  forward,  Dauber,  and  enjoy  your  cry." 


128  DAUBER 

The   Mate   limped   to   the   rail;   like  little 

feet 
Over   his   head   the   drumming   reef-points 

beat. 
The  Dauber  reached  the  berth  and  entered 

in. 

Much  mockery  followed  after  as  he  went, 
And  each  face  seemed  to   greet  him  with 

the  grin 
Of    hounds    hot    following    on    a   creature 

spent. 
"Aren't  you  a  fool?"  each  mocking  visage 

meant. 
"Who  did  it,  Dauber?    What  did  Captain 

say? 
It  is  a  crime,  and  there'll  be  hell  to  pay." 

He  bowed  his  head,  the  house  was  full  of 

smoke ; 
The  Sails  was  pointing  shackles  on  his  chest. 


DAUBER  129 

"Lord,    Dauber,    be    a   man    and    take    a 

joke"  - 
He  puffed  his  pipe  —  "and  let  the  matter 

rest. 

Spit  brown,  my  son,  and  get  a  hairy  breast ; 
Get  shoulders  on  you  at  the  crojick  braces, 
And  let  this  painting  business  go  to  blazes. 

"What  good  can  painting  do  to  anyone? 
I  don't  say  never  do  it;    far  from  that- 
No  harm  in   sometimes   painting   just   for 

fun. 
Keep  it  for  fun,  and  stick  to  what  you're 

at. 
Your  job's  to  fill  your  bones  up  and  get 

fat; 
Rib  up  like  Barney's  bull,  and  thick  your 

neck. 
Throw  paints  to  hell,  boy ;  you  belong  on 

deck." 


130  DAUBER 

"That's  right,"  said  Chips;  "it's  down- 
right good  advice. 

Painting's  no  good;  what  good  can  paint- 
ing do 

Up  on  a  lower  topsail  stiff  with  ice, 

With  all  your  little  fish-hooks  frozen  blue? 

Painting  won't  help  you  at  the  weather 
clew, 

Nor  pass  your  gaskets  for  you,  nor  make 
sail. 

Painting's  a  balmy  job  not  worth  a  nail." 

The  Dauber  did  not  answer ;  time  was  pass- 
ing. 

He  pulled  his  easel  out,  his  paints,  his  stool. 

The  wind  was  dropping,  and  the  sea  was 
glassing  — 

New  realms  of  beauty  waited  for  his  rule; 

The  draught  out  of  the  crojick  kept  him 
cool. 


DAUBER  131 

He  sat  to  paint,   alone  and  melancholy. 
"No  turning  fools,"  the  Chips  said,  "from 
their  folly."., 

He  dipped  his  brush  and  tried  to  fix  a  line, 
And  then  came  peace,  and  gentle  beauty  came, 
Turning  his  spirit's  water  into  wine, 
Lightening   his   darkness   with   a   touch   of 

flame: 

O,  joy  of  trying  for  beauty,  ever  the  same, 
You  never  fail,  your  comforts  never  end; 
O,  balm  of  this  world's  way;  O,  perfect 

friend  I 


III 


THEY  lost  the  Trades  soon  after;  then 
came  calm, 

Light  little  gusts  and  rain,  which  soon  in- 
creased 


132  DAUBER 

To  glorious  northers  shouting  out  a  psalm 
At    seeing    the    bright    blue    water    silver 

fleeced ; 
Hornwards  she  rushed,  trampling  the  seas 

to  yeast. 

There  fell  a  rain-squall  in  a  blind  day's  end 
When   for   an   hour   the   Dauber   found   a 

friend. 

Out  of  the  rain  the  voices  called  and  passed, 
The  stay-sails   flogged,   the   tackle   yanked 

and  shook. 

Inside  the  harness-room  a  lantern  cast 
Light  and  wild   shadows  as  it  ranged  its 

hook. 
The  watch  on  deck  was  gathered  in  the 

nook, 

They  had  taken  shelter  in  that  secret  place, 
Wild    light    gave    wild    emotions    to    each 

face. 


DAUBER 

One  beat  the  beef-cask,  and  the  others  sang 

A  song  that  had  brought  anchors  out  of 
seas 

In  ports  where  bells  of  Christians  never 
rang, 

Nor  any  sea  mark  blazed  among  the  trees. 

By  forlorn  swamps,  in  ice,  by  windy  keys, 

That  song  had  sounded;  now  it  shook  the 
air 

From  these  eight  wanderers  brought  to- 
gether there. 

Under     the    poop-break,     sheltering    from 

the  rain, 
The    Dauber    sketched    some    likeness    of 

the  room, 

A  note  to  be  a  prompting  to  his  brain, 
A  spark  to  make  old  memory  reillume. 
"Dauber,"  said  someone  near  him  in  the 

gloom, 


134  DAUBER 

"How   goes  it,   Dauber?"    It  was   reefer 

Si. 
"There's  not  much  use  in  trying  to  keep 

dry." 

They  sat  upon  the  sail-room  doorway  coam- 
ing, 

The  lad  held  forth  like  youth,  the  Dauber 
listened 

To  how  the  boy  had  had  a  taste  for  roam- 
ing, 

And  what  the  sea  is  said  to  be  and  isn't. 

Where  the  dim  lamplight  fell  the  wet  deck 
glistened. 

Si  said  the  Horn  was  still  some  weeks  away, 

"But  tell  me,  Dauber,  where  d'you  hail 
from?  Eh?" 

The  rain  blew  past  and  let  the  stars  appear ; 
The  seas  grew  larger  as  the  moonlight  grew ; 


DAUBER  135 

For  half  an  hour  the  ring  of  heaven  was 
clear, 

^  /        v>  /       X 

Dusty   with   moonlight,   grey   rather   than 

blue; 
In  that  great  moon  the  showing  stars  were 

few. 

The  sleepy  time-boy's  feet  passed  overhead. 
"I  come  from  out  past  Gloucester,"  Dauber 

said; 

"Not  far  from  Pauntley,  if  you  know  those 

parts  ; 

The  place  is  Spital  Farm,  near  Silver  Hill, 
Above  a  trap-hatch  where  a  mill-stream 

starts. 
We  had  the  mill  once,  but  we've  stopped 

the  mill; 

My  dad  and  sister  keep  the  farm  on  still. 
We're  only  tenants,  but  we've  rented  there, 
Father  and  son,  for  over  eighty  year. 


136  DAUBER 

"Father  has  worked  the  farm  since  grand- 

fer  went; 
It  means  the  world  to  him;  I  can't  think 

why. 
They  bleed  him  to  the  last  half-crown  for 

rent, 
And  this  and  that  have  almost  milked  him 

dry. 
The  land's  all  starved;  if  he'd  put  money 

by, 

And  corn  was  up,  and  rent  was  down  two- 
thirds.     .    . 
But  then  they  aren't,  so  what's  the  use  of 

words. 

"Yet  still  he  couldn't  bear  to  see  it  pass 
To  strangers,  or  to  think  a  time  would  come 
When  other  men  than  us  would  mow  the 

grass, 
And  other  names  than  ours  have  the  home. 


DA  UBER  137 

Some    sorrows    come    from    evil    thought, 

but  some 
Comes  when  two  men  are  near,  and  both  are 

blind 
To  what  is  generous  in  the  other's  mind. 

"I  was  the  only  boy,  and  father  thought 
I'd  farm  the  Spital  after  he  was  dead, 
And  many  a  time  he  took  me  out  and  taught 
About   manures   and   seed-corn   white   and 

red, 

And  soils  and  hops,  but  I'd  an  empty  head ; 
Harvest  or  seed,  I  would  not  do  a  turn  — 
I  loathed  the  farm,  I  didn't  want  to  learn. 

"He  did  not  mind  at  first,  he  thought  it 

youth 

Feeling  the  collar,  and  that  I  should  change. 
Then  time  gave  him  some  inklings  of  the 

truth, 


138  DAUBER 

And  that  I  loathed  the  farm,  and  wished 

to  range. 

Truth  to  a  man  of  fifty's  always  strange; 
It  was  most  strange  and  terrible  to  him 
That  I,  his  heir,  should  be  the  devil's  limb. 

"Yet  still  he  hoped  the  Lord  might  change 

my  mind. 

I'd  see  him  bridle-in  his  wrath  and  hate, 
And  almost  break  my  heart  he  was  so  kind, 
Biting  his  lips  sore  with  resolve  to  wait. 
And  then  I'd  try  awhile ;  but  it  was  Fate : 
I  didn't  want  to  learn;    the  farm  to  me 
Was  mire  and  hopeless  work  and  misery. 

"Though  there  were  things  I  loved  about 
it,  too  — 

The  beasts,  the  apple-trees,  and  going  hay- 
ing. 

And  then  I  tried ;  but  no,  it  wouldn't  do, 


DAUBER  139 

The   farm   was   prison,    and   my   thoughts 

were  straying. 
And  there'd  come  father,  with  his  grey  head, 

praying, 

'0,  my  dear  son,  don't  let  the  Spital  pass; 
It's  my  old  home,  boy,  where  your  grand- 

fer  was. 

4 

'"And  now  you  won't  learn  farming;  you 

don't  care. 
The  old  home's  nought  to  you.     I've  tried 

to  teach  you; 

I've  begged  Almighty  God,  boy,  all  I  dare, 
To  use  His  hand  if  word  of  mine  won't 

reach  you. 
Boy,  for  your  granfer's  sake  I  do  beseech 

you, 
Don't    let    the    Spital    pass    to    strangers. 

Squire 
Has  said  he'd  give  it  you  if  we  require. 


140  DAUBER 

"'Your   mother   used   to   walk  here,   boy, 

with  me; 

It  was  her  favourite  walk  down  to  the  mill  ; 
And  there  we'd  talk  how  little  death  would  be, 
Knowing  our  work  was  going  on  here  still. 
You've  got  the  brains,  you  only  want  the 

will- 
Don't    disappoint   your    mother    and    your 

father. 
I'll  give  you  time  to  travel,  if  you'd  rather.' 

"But,  no,  I'd  wander  up  the  brooks  to  read. 
Then  sister  Jane  would  start  with  nagging 

tongue, 

Saying  my  sin  made  father's  heart  to  bleed, 
And  how  she  feared  she'd  live  to  see  me 

hung. 

And  then  she'd  read  me  bits  from  Dr.  Yourfg. 
And  when  we  three  would  sit  to  supper,  Jane 
Would  fillip  dad  till  dad  began  again. 


DAUBER 

'"I've  been  here  all  my  life,  boy.    I  was 

born 

Up  in  the  room  above  —  looks  on  the  mead. 
I    never    thought    you'd    cockle    my    clean 

corn, 
And  leave   the  old  home   to   a  stranger's 

seed. 
Father   and    I   have   made   here    'thout    a 

weed: 
We've  give  our  lives  to  make  that.    Eighty 

years. 
And  now  I  go  down  to  the  grave  in  tears.' 

"And  then  I'd  get  ashamed  and  take  off 

coat, 
And  work  maybe  a  week,   ploughing  and 

sowing 

And  then  I'd  creep  away  and  sail  my  boat, 
Or   watch   the   water   when   the   mill   was 

going. 


142  DAUBER 

That's  my  delight  —  to  be  near  water  flow- 
ing, 

Dabbling  or  sailing  boats  or  jumping  stanks, 
Or     finding     moorhens'     nests    along    the 
banks. 

"And   one   day   father   found   a   ship   Fd 

built; 

He  took  the  cart-whip  to  me  over  that, 
And  I,  half  mad  with  pain,  and  sick  with 

guilt, 

Went  up  and  hid  in  what  we  called  the  flat, 
A  dusty  hole  given  over  to  the  cat. 
She  kittened  there;  the  kittens  had  worn 

paths 
Among    the    cobwebs,    dust,    and    broken 

laths. 

"And  putting  down  my  hand  between  the 
beams 


LA  USER  143 

I  felt  a  leathery  thing,  and  pulled  it  clear: 
A  book  with  white   cocoons  stuck  in  the 

seams. 
Where  spiders  had  had  nests  for  many  a 

year. 
It   was   my   mother's   sketch-book;  hid,  I 

fear, 

Lest  dad  should  ever  see  it.     Mother's  life 
Was  not  her  own  while  she  was  father's 

wife. 

"There  were  her  drawings,  dated,  pencilled 
faint. 

March  was  the  last  one,  eighteen  eighty- 
three, 

Unfinished  that,  for  tears  had  smeared  the 
paint. 

The  rest  was  landscape,  not  yet  brought 
to  be. 

That  was  a  holy  afternoon  to  me; 


144  DAUBER 

That  book  a  sacred  book;  the  flat  a  place 
Where  I  could  meet  my  mother  face  to  face. 

"She   had   found   peace   of   spirit,    mother 

had, 

Drawing  the  landscape  from  the  attic  there  — 
Heart-broken,  often,  after  rows  with  dad, 
.Hid  like  a  wild  thing  in  a  secret  lair. 
That  rotting  sketch-book  showed  me  how 

and  where 

I,  too,  could  get  away;   and  then  I  knew 
That  drawing  was  the  work  I  longed  to  do. 

"  Drawing    became    my    life.      I    drew,    I 

toiled, 

And  every  penny  I  could  get  I  spent 
On   paints   and   artist's   matters,    which   I 

spoiled 

Up  in  the  attic  to  my  heart's  content, 
Till  one  day  father  asked  me  what  I  meant ; 


DAUBER  145 

The  time  had  come,  he  said,  to  make  an 

end. 
Now  it  must  finish :  what  did  I  intend  ? 

"Either  I  took  to  farming,  like  his  son, 
In  which   case  he  would   teach  me,   early 

and  late 

(Provided  that  my  daubing  mood  was  done), 
Or  I  must  go:   it  must  be  settled  straight. 
If  I  refused  to  farm,  there  was  the  gate. 
I  was  to  choose,  his  patience  was  all  gone, 
The  present  state  of  things  could  not  go  on. 

"Sister  was  there;  she  eyed  me  while  he 

spoke. 
The  kitchen  clock  ran  down  and  struck  the 

hour, 
And  something  told  me  father's  heart  was 

broke, 
For  all  he  stood  so  set  and  looked  so  sour. 


A  pewter  on  the  dresser;    she  was  crying. 
I  stood  stock  still  a  long  time,  not  replying. 

"Dad  waited,  then  he  snorted  and  turned 

round. 

'Well,  think  of  it/  he  said.    He  left  the  room, 
His  boots  went  clop  along  the  stony  ground 
Out  to  the  orchard  and  the  apple-bloom. 
A  cloud   came  past  the  sun  and  made  a 

gloom  ; 

I  swallowed  with  dry  lips,  then  sister  turned. 
She  was  dead  white  but  for  her  eyes  that 

burned. 

"'You're  breaking  father's  heart,  Joe/  she 

began ; 
'It's  not  as  if '   she  checked,   in  too 

much  pain. 
'O,  Joe,  don't  help  to  kill  so  fine  a  man; 


DAUBER  147 

You're  giving  him  our  mother  over  again. 
It's  wearing  him  to  death,  Joe,  heart  and 

brain; 
You  know  what  store  he  sets  on  leaving 

this 
To  (it's  too  cruel)  —  to  a  son  of  his. 

'"Yet   you   go   painting   all   the   day.    0, 

Joe, 
Couldn't  you  make  an  effort?    Can't  you 

see 
What  folly  it  is  of  yours?       It's  not  as 

though 

You  are  a  genius  or  could  ever  be. 
O,  Joe,  for  father's  sake,  if  not  for  me, 
Give  up  this  craze  for  painting,  and  be  wise 
And   work   with   father,   where   your   duty 

lies.' 

"'It  goes  too  deep,'  I  said;  'I  loathe  the 
farm; 


148  DAUBER 

I  couldn't  help,  even  if  I'd  the  mind. 
Even  if  I  helped,  I'd  only  do  him  harm; 
Father  would  see  it,  if  he  were  not  blind. 
I  was  not  built  to  farm,  as  he  would  find. 
O,  Jane,  it's  bitter  hard  to  stand  alone 
And  spoil  my  father's  life  or  spoil  my  own.' 

"'Spoil    both,'   she  said,   'the  way   you're 

shaping  now. 
You're  only  a  boy  not  knowing  your  own 

good. 
Where  will  you  go,  suppose  you  leave  here  ? 

How 

Do  you  propose  to  earn  your  daily  food? 
Draw?       Daub  the  pavements?       There's 

a  feckless  brood 

Goes  to  the  devil  daily,  Joe,  in  cities 
Only  from  thinking  how  divine  their  wit  is. 

'"Clouds  are  they,  without  water,  carried 
away. 


DA  USES  149 

And  you'll  be  one  of  them,  the  way  you're 

going, 

Daubing  at  silly  pictures  all  the  day, 
And  praised   by  silly  fools  who're  always 

blowing. 
And  you  choose  this  when  you  might  go 

a-sowing, 

Casting  the  good  corn  into  chosen  mould 
That  shall  in  time  bring  forth  a  hundred- 
fold.' 

"So  we  went  on,  but  in  the  end  it  ended. 
I  felt  I'd  done  a  murder;    I  felt  sick. 
There's  much  in  human  minds  cannot  be 

mended, 

And  that,  not  I,  played  dad  a  cruel  trick. 
There  was  one  mercy :  that  it  ended  quick. 
I  went  to  join  my  mother's  brother :  he 
Lived  down  the  Severn.       He  was  kind  to 

me. 


150  DAUBER 

"And   there   I   learned   house-painting   for 

a  living. 

I'd  have  been  happy  there,  but  that  I  knew 
I'd    sinned    before    my    father    past   for- 
giving, 

And  that  they  sat  at  home,  that  silent  two, 
Wearing    the    fire    out    and    the    evening 

through, 

Silent,  defeated,  broken,  in  despair, 
My  plate  unset,  my  name  gone,  and  my 
chair. 

"I    saw  all  that;    and    sister   Jane    came 

white  — 
White    as   a    ghost,    with    fiery,    weeping 

eyes. 

I  saw  her  all  day  long  and  half  the  night, 
Bitter  as  gall,  and  passionate  and  wise. 
'Joe,  you   have   killed   your   father:    there 

he  lies. 


DAUBER  151 

You  have  done  your  work  —  you  with  our 

mother's  ways.' 
She  said  it  plain,  and  then  her  eyes  would 

blaze. 

"And  then  one  day  I  had  a  job  to  do 
Down  below  bridge,   by  where  the  docks 

begin, 

And  there  I  saw  a  clipper  towing  through, 
Up  from  the  sea  that  morning,  entering  in. 
Raked  to  the  nines  she  was,  lofty  and  thin, 
Her  ensign  ruffing  red,  her  bunts  in  pile, 
Beauty  and  strength  together,  wonder,  style. 

"She  docked  close  to  the  gates,  and  there 

she  lay 

Over  the  water  from  me,  well  in  sight ; 
And  as  I  worked  I  watched  her  all  the  day, 
Finding  her  beauty  ever  fresh  delight. 
Her  house-flag  was  bright  green  with  strips 

of  white; 


152  DAUBER 

High  in  the  sunny  air  it  rose  to  shake 
Above    the    skysail    poles'    most    splendid 
rake. 

"And  when  I  felt  unhappy  I  would  look 
Over  the  river  at  her;   and  her  pride, 
So  calm,  so  quiet,  came  as  a  rebuke 

To  half  the  passionate  pathways  which  I 

rf 

tried; 

And  though  the  autumn  ran  its  term  and 

died, 

And  winter  fell  and  cold  December  came, 
She  was  still  splendid  there,  and  still  the 

same. 

"Then  on  a  day  she  sailed;    but  when  she 

went 

My  mind  was  clear  on  what  I  had  to  try: 
To  see  the  sea  and  ships,  and  what  they 

meant, 


DAUBER  153 

That  was  the  thing  I  longed  to  do;  so  I 
Drew  and  worked  hard,  and  studied  and  put 

by, 
And  thought  of  nothing  else  but  that  one 

end, 
But   let   all   else   go   hang  —  love,   money, 

friend. 

"And  now  I've  shipped  as  Dauber  I've 
begun. 

It  was  hard  work  to  find  a  dauber's  berth; 

I  hadn't  any  friends  to  find  me  one, 

Only  my  skill,  for  what  it  may  be  worth ; 

But  I'm  at  sea  now,  going  about  the  earth, 

And  when  the  ship's  paid  off,  when  we  re- 
turn, 

I'll  join  some  Paris  studio  and  learn." 

He  stopped,  the  air  came  moist,  Si  did  not 
speak; 


154  DAUBER 

The  Dauber  turned  his  eyes  to  where  he 

sat, 
Pressing    the    sail-room    hinges    with    his 

cheek, 
His    face    half    covered    with    a    drooping 

hat. 
Huge  dewdrops  from  the  stay-sails  dropped 

and  spat. 
Si   did  not  stir,   the   Dauber   touched  his 

sleeve ; 
A  little  birdlike  noise  came  from  a  sheave. 

Si  was  asleep,  sleeping  a  calm  deep  sleep, 
Still  as  a  warden  of  the  Egyptian  dead 
In  some  old  haunted  temple  buried  deep 
Under  the  desert  sand,   sterile  and  red. 
The  Dauber  shook  his  arm;  Si  jumped  and 

said, 
"Good  yarn,  I  swear!      I  say,  you  have  a 

brain  — 


DAUBER  155 

Was   that   eight   bells    that    went?"      He 
slept  again. 

Then  waking  up,  "I've  had  a  nap,"  he  cried. 
"Was  that  one  bell?    What,  Dauber,  you 

still  here?" 
"Si  there?"  the  Mate's  voice  called.    "Sir," 

he  replied. 

The  order  made  the  lad's  thick  vision  clear; 
A  something  in  the  Mate's  voice  made  him 

fear. 
"Si,"  said  the  Mate,  "I  hear  you've  made 

a  friend  - 
Dauber,    in    short.     That    friendship's    got 

to  end. 

"You're  a  young  gentleman.    Your  place 

aboard 

Is  with  the  gentlemen  abaft  the  mast. 
You're  learning   to   command;     you   can't 

afford 


156  DAUB  SB 

To  yarn  with   any  man.    But   there  .  .  . 

it's  past. 
You've  done  it  once;    let  this  time  be  the 

last. 
The    Dauber's   place   is   forward.       Do   it 

again, 
I'll  put  you  bunking  forward  with  the  men. 

" Dismiss."    Si  went,  but  Sam,  beside  the 

Mate, 
Timekeeper  there,  walked  with  him  to  the 

rail 
And  whispered  him  the  menace  of  "You 

wait"- 
Words  which  have  turned  full  many  a  reefer 

pale. 
The  watch  was  changed ;  the  watch  on  deck 

trimmed  sail. 
Sam,    going   below,    called    all    the   reefers 

down, 


DAUBER  157 

Sat  in  his  bunk  and  eyed  them  with  a  frown. 

"Si  here,"  he  said,  "has  soiled  the  half- 
deck's  name 

Talking  to  Dauber  —  Dauber,  the  ship's 
clout. 

A  reefer  takes  the  Dauber  for  a  flame, 

The  half-deck  take  the  round-house  walking 
out. 

He's  soiled  the  half-deck's  honour ;  now,  no 
doubt, 

The  Bosun  and  his  mates  will  come  here 
sneaking, 

Asking  for  smokes,  or  blocking  gangways 
speaking. 

"I'm  not  a  vain  man,  given  to  blow  or  boast ; 
I'm  not  a  proud  man,  but  I  truly  feel 
That  while  I've  bossed  this  mess  and  ruled 
this  roast 


158  DAUBER 

I've  kept   this  hooker's  half-deck  damned 

genteel. 

Si  must  ask  pardon,  or  be  made  to  squeal. 
Down  on  your  knees,  dog;  them  we  love 

we  chasten. 
Jao,  pasea,  my  son  —  in  English,  Hasten." 

Si    begged    for    pardon,    meekly    kneeling 

down 

Before   the   reefer's   mess   assembled   grim. 
The  lamp  above  them  smoked  the  glass  all 

brown ; 
Beyond   the   door  the   dripping   sails   were 

dim. 
The  Dauber  passed  the  door;  none  spoke 

to  him. 
He  sought  his  berth  and  slept,  or,  waking, 

heard 
Rain   on   the   deck-house  —  rain,   no   other 

word. 


DAUBER  159 

IV 

OUT  of  the  air  a  time  of  quiet  came, 
Calm  fell  upon  the  heaven  like  a  drouth ; 
The  brass   sky  watched   the  brassy  water 

flame. 

Drowsed  as  a  snail  the  clipper  loitered  south 
Slowly,    with    no    white    bone    across    her 

mouth ; 

No  rushing  glory,  like  a  queen  made  bold, 
The    Dauber   strove    to    draw   her   as   she 

rolled. 

There    the    four    leaning    spires    of   canvas 

rose, 

Royals  and  skysails  lifting,   gently  lifting, 
White  like  the  brightness  that  a  great  fish 

blows 
When  billows  are  at  peace  and  ships  are 

drifting ; 


160  DAUBER 

With  mighty  jerks  that  set  the  shadows 
shifting, 

x  \ 

The   courses  tugged  their   tethers :   a   blue 

haze 
Drifted  like  ghosts  of  flocks  come  down  to 

graze. 

There  the  great  skyline  made  her  perfect 
round, 

Notched  now  and  then  by  the  sea's  deeper 
blue; 

A  smoke-smutch  marked  a  steamer  home- 
ward bound, 

The  haze  wrought  all  things  to  intenser 
hue. 

In  tingling  impotence  the  Dauber  drew 

As  all  men  draw,  keen  to  the  shaken 
soul 

To  give  a  hint  that  might  suggest  the 
whole. 


DA  UBER  161 

A  naked  seaman  washing  a  red  shirt 
Sat  at  a  tub  whistling  between  his  teeth; 
Complaining    blocks    quavered    like    some- 
thing hurt. 

A  sailor  cut  an  old  boot  for  a  sheath, 
The  ship  bowed  to  her  shadow-ship  beneath, 
And  little  slaps  of  spray  came  at  the  roll 
On  to  the  deck-planks  from  the  scupper- 
hole. 

He    watched    it,    painting    patiently,     as 

paints, 
With  eyes  that  pierce  behind  the  blue  sky's 

veil, 

The  Benedictine  in  a  Book  of  Saints 
Watching  the  passing  of  the  Holy  Grail ; 
The  green  dish  dripping  blood,  the  trump, 

the  hail, 
The  spears  that  pass,  the  memory  and  the 

passion, 


162  DAUBER 

The    beauty    moving    under    this    world's 
fashion. 

But  as  he  painted,  slowly,  man  by  man, 
The  seamen  gathered  near ;  the  Bosun  stood 
Behind  him,  jeering;  then  the  Sails  began 
Sniggering  with  comment  that  it  was  not 

good. 
Chips  flicked  his  sketch  with  little  scraps 

of  wood, 
Saying,    "That    hit    the    top-knot,"    every 

time. 
Cook  mocked,  "My  lovely  drawings;    it's 

a  crime." 

Slowly  the  men  came  nearer,  till  a  crowd 
Stood  at  his  elbow,  muttering  as  he  drew; 
The  Bosun,  turning  to  them,  spoke  aloud, 
"This  is  the  ship  that  never  got  there. 

You 
Look  at  her  here,  what  Dauber's  trying  to  do. 


DAUBER  163 

Look  at  her  !    lummy,  like  a  Christmas-tree. 
That  thing's  a  ship;  he  calls  this  painting. 
See?" 

Seeing  the  crowd,  the  Mate  came  forward; 

then 
"Sir,"  said  the  Bosun,  "come  and  see  the 

sight ! 

Here's  Dauber  makes  a  circus  for  the  men. 
He    calls    this    thing    a    ship  —  this    hell's 

delight!" 
"Man,"  said  the  Mate,   "you'll  never  get 

her  right 
Daubing   like   that.       Look   here!"       He 

took  a  brush. 
"Now,  Dauber,  watch;  I'll  put  you  to  the 

blush. 

"Look  here.     Look  there.    Now  watch  this 
ship  of  mine." 


164  DAUBER 

He  drew  her  swiftly  from  a  memory  stored. 
"God,  sir,"  the  Bosun  said,  "you  do  her 

fine!" 

"Ay,"  said  the  Mate,  "I  do  so,  by  the  Lord  ! 
I'll  paint  a  ship  with  any  man  aboard." 
They  hung  about  his  sketch  like  beasts  at 

bait. 

"There  now,  I  taught  him  painting,"  said 

^ 
the  Mate. 

When  he  had  gone,  the  gathered  men  dis- 
persed ; 

Yet  two  or  three  still  lingered  to  dispute 

What  errors  made  the  Dauber's  work 
the  worst. 

They  probed  his  want  of  knowledge  to  the 
root. 

"Bei  Gott!"  they  swore,  "der  Dauber 
cannot  do  't; 

He  haf  no  knolich  how  to  put  der  pense. 


DAUBER  1C5 

Der  Mate's  is  goot.     Der  Dauber  haf  no 


"You  hear?"  the  Bosun  cried,  "you  can- 
not do  it!" 

"A  gospel  truth,"  the  Cook  said,  "true 
as  hell ! 

And  wisdom,  Dauber,  if  you  only  knew  it ; 

A  five  year  boy  would  do  a  ship  as  well." 

"If  that's  the  kind  of  thing  you  hope  to  sell, 

God  help  you,"  echoed  Chips.  "I  tell 
you  true, 

The  job's  beyond  you,  Dauber;  drop  it, 
do. 

"Drop  it,  in  God's  name  drop  it,  and  have 

done ! 
You  see  you  cannot  do  it.  Here's  the 

Mate 
Paints  you  to  frazzles  before  everyone; 


166  DAUBER 

Paints  you  a  dandy  clipper  while  you  wait. 
While  you,  Lord  love  us,  daub.     I  tell  you 

straight, 

We've  had  enough  of  daubing ;  drop  it ;  quit. 
You  cannot  paint,  so  make  an  end  of  it." 

"That's  sense,"  said  all;  "you  cannot,  why 

pretend?" 

The  Dauber  rose  and  put  his  easel  by. 
"You've  said  enough,"  he  said,   "now  let 

it  end. 
Who    cares    how    bad    my    painting    may 

be?    I 

Mean  to  go  on,  and,  if  I  fail,  to  try. 
However  much  I  miss  of  my  intent, 
If  I  have  done  my  best  I'll  be  content. 

"You  cannot  understand  that.     Let  it  be. 
You    cannot    understand,    nor    know,    nor 
share. 


DAUBER  167 

This  is  a  matter  touching  only  me; 

My   sketch   may   be   a   daub,  for   aught   I 

care. 

You  may  be  right.    But  even  if  you  were, 
Your  mocking  should  not  stop   this  work 

of  mine; 
Rot  though  it  be,  its  prompting  is  divine. 

"You  cannot  understand  that  —  you,  and 
you, 

And  you,  you  Bosun.  You  can  stand  and 
jeer, 

That  is  the  task  your  spirit  fits  you  to, 

That  you  can  understand  and  hold  most 
dear. 

Grin,  then,  like  collars,  ear  to  donkey  ear, 

But  let  me  daub.  Try,  you,  to  under- 
stand 

Which  task  will  bear  the  light  best  on  God's 
hand." 


168  DAUBER 


THE  wester  came  as  steady  as  the  Trades; 

Brightly  it  blew,  and  still  the  ship  did 
shoulder 

The  brilliance  of  the  water's  white  cockades 

Into  the  milky  green  of  smoky  smoulder. 

The  sky  grew  bluer  and  the  air  grew  colder. 

Southward  she  thundered  while  the  westers 
held, 

Proud,  with  taut  bridles,  pawing,  but  com- 
pelled. 

And  still  the  Dauber  strove,  though  all  men 

mocked, 

draw  the  splendour  of  the  passing  thing, 
And    deep    inside    his    heart    a  something 

locked, 

Long  pricking  in  him,  now  began  to  sting  — 
A  fear  of  the  disasters  storm  might  bring; 


DAUBER  169 

His  rank  as  painter  would  be  ended  then  — 
He  would  keep  watch  and  watch  like  other 
men. 

And  go  aloft  with  them  to  man  the  yard 
When  the  great  ship  was  rolling  scuppers 

under, 
Burying  her  snout  all  round  the  compass 

card, 
While  the  green  water  struck  at  her  and 

stunned  her; 
When    the    lee-rigging    slacked,    when    one 

long  thunder 
Boomed  from  the  black  to  windward,  when 

the  sail 
Booted  and  spurred  the  devil  in  the  gale 

For  him   to   ride   on   men:   that  was   the 

time 
The  Dauber  dreaded;  then  the  test  would 

come, 


170  DAUBER 

When  seas,   half-frozen,   slushed  the  decks 

with  slime, 

And  all  the  ah1  was  blind  with  flying  scum; 
When  the  drenched  sails  were  furled,  when 

the  fierce  hum 

In  weather  riggings  died  into  the  roar 
Of  God's  eternal  never  tamed  by  shore. 

Once  in  the  passage  he  had  worked  aloft, 
Shifting  her  suits  one  summer  afternoon, 
In  the  bright  Trade  wind,  when  the  wind 

was  soft, 
Shaking    the    points,    making    the    tackle 

croon. 
But  that  was  child's  play  to  the  future : 

soon 
He  would  be  ordered  up  when  sails  and 

spars 
Were    flying    and    going    mad    among  the 

stars. 


DAUBER  171 

He  had  been  scared  that  first  time,  daunted, 

thrilled, 

Not  by  the  height  so  much  as  by  the  size, 
And  then  the  danger  to  the  man  unskilled 
In  standing  on  a  rope  that  runs  through  eyes. 
"But  in  a  storm,"  he  thought,  "the  yards 

will  rise 
And    roll    together    down,  and  snap  their 

gear !" 
The  sweat  came  cold  upon  his  palms  for  fear. 

Sometimes  in  Gloucester  he  had  felt  a  pang 
Swinging  below  the  house-eaves  on  a  stage. 
But  stages  carry  rails;  here  he  would  hang 
Upon  a  jerking  rope  in  a  storm's  rage, 
Ducked   that   the   sheltering   oilskin   might 

assuage 
The   beating   of   the   storm,   clutching   the 

jack, 
Beating  the   sail,   and   being  beaten   back. 


172  DAUBER 

Drenched,  frozen,  gasping,  blinded,  beaten 

dumb, 
High  in   the  night,   reeling  great  blinding 

arcs 

As  the  ship  rolled,  his  chappy  fingers  numb, 
The  deck  below  a  narrow  blur  of  marks, 
The  sea  a  welter  of  whiteness  shot  with 

sparks, 
Now   snapping   up   in   bursts,    now    dying 

away, 
Salting  the  horizontal  snow  with  spray. 

A  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the  deck, 
And  there,  while  the  ship  rolls,  boldly  to 

sit 

Upon  a  foot-rope  moving,  jerk  and  check, 
While  half  a  dozen  seamen  work  on  it ; 
Held  by  one  hand,  straining,  by  strength 

and  wit 
To  toss  a  gasket's  coil  around  the  yard, 


DAUBER 

How  could  he  compass  that  when  blowing 
hard? 

And  if  he  failed  in  .any  least  degree, 
Or  faltered  for  an  instant,  or  showed  slack, 
He  might  go  drown  himself  within  the  sea, 
And  add  a  bubble  to  the  clipper's  track. 
He  had  signed  his  name,  there  was  no  turn- 
ing back, 

No  pardon  for  default  —  this  must  be  done. 
One  iron  rule  at  sea  binds  everyone. 

Till  now  he  had  been  treated  with   con- 
tempt 

As  neither  man  nor  thing,  a  creature  borne 
On  the  ship's  articles,  but  left  exempt 
From  all   the  seamen's    life    except    their 

scorn. 

But  he  would  rank  as  seaman  off  the  Horn, 
Work  as  a  seaman,  and  be  kept  or  cast 
By  standards  set  for  men  before  the  mast. 


174  DAUBER 

Even  now  they  shifted  suits  of  sails;  they 

bent 

The  storm-suit  ready  for  the  expected  time ; 
The  mighty  wester  that  the  Plate  had  lent 
Had  brought  them  far  into  the  wintry  clime. 
At  dawn,  out  of  the  shadow,  there  was 

rime, 

The  dim  Magellan  Clouds  were  frosty  clear, 
The  wind  had  edge,  the  testing-time  was 

near. 

i 

And  then  he  wondered  if  the  tales  were 

lies 

Told  by  old  hands  to  terrify  the  new, 
For,    since    the    ship    left    England,    only 

twice 
Had  there  been  need  to  start  a  sheet  or 

clew, 

Then  only  royals,  for  an  hour  or  two, 
And  no  seas  broke  aboard,  nor  was  it  cold. 


DAUBER  175 

What  were  these  gales  of  which  the  stories 
told? 

The  thought  went  by.      He  had  heard  the 

Bosun  tell 

Too  often,  and  too  fiercely,  not  to  know 
That  being  off  the  Horn  in  June  is  hell : 
Hell  of  continual  toil  in  ice  and  snow, 
Frostbitten  hell  in  which  the  westers  blow 
Shrieking  for  days  on   end,   in  which   the 

seas 
Gulf  the  starved  seamen  till  their  marrows 

freeze. 

Such  was  the  weather  he  might  look  to 
find, 

Such  was  the  work  expected :  there  re- 
mained 

Firmly  to  set  his  teeth,  resolve  his  mind, 

And  be  the  first,  however  much  it  pained, 


176  DAUBER 

And  bring  his  honour  round  the  Horn  un- 
stained, 

And  win  his  mates'  respect;  and  thence, 
untainted, 

Be  ranked  as  man  however  much  he 
painted. 

He  drew  deep  breath;  a  gantline  swayed 

aloft 
A    lower    topsail,    hard    with    rope    and 

leather, 

Such  as  men's  frozen  fingers  fight  with  oft 
Below  the  Ramirez  in  Cape  Horn  weather. 
The  arms  upon  the  yard  hove  all  together, 
Lighting  the  head  along ;  a  thought  occurred 
Within  the  painter's  brain  like  a  bright 

bird: 

That  this,  and  so  much  like  it,  of  man's 
toil, 


DAUBER  177 

Compassed  by  naked  manhood  in  strange 

places,  .fH 

Was  all  heroic,  but  outside  the  coil 
Within  which  modern  art  gleams  or  grim- 
aces; 

That  if  he  drew  that  line  of  sailor's  faces 
Sweating  the  sail,  their  passionate  play  and 

change, 

It    would    be    new,    and    wonderful,    and 
strange. 


That  that  was  what  his  work  meant;  it 

would  be 

A  training  in  new  vision  —  a  revealing 
Of    passionate    men    in    battle    with    the 

sea, 
High    on    an    unseen    stage,    shaking    and 

reeling ; 
And   men   through   him  would   understand 

their  feeling, 


178  DAUBER 

Their    might,    their    misery,    their    tragic 

power, 
And  all  by  suffering  pain  a  little  hour; 

High  on  the  yard  with  them,  feeling  their 

pain, 
Battling  with  them;   and  it  had  not  been 

done. 

He  was  a  door  to  new  worlds  in  the  brain, 
A  window  opening  letting  in  the  sun, 
A   voice   saying,    "Thus   is   bread    fetched 

and  ports  won, 

And  life  lived  out  at  sea  where  men  exist 
Solely  by  man's  strong  brain  and  sturdy 

wrist." 

So  he  decided,   as  he  cleaned  his  brasses, 
Hearing  without,  aloft,  the  curse,  the  shout 
Where   the   taut   gantline   passes   and   re- 
passes, 


DAUBER  179 

Heaving  new  topsails  to  be  lighted  out. 
//It    was    most    proud,    however    self   might 

doubt, 

To  share  man's  tragic  toil  and  paint  it  true.   ? 
He   took  the   offered   Fate :   this  he  would 
do. 

That  night  the  snow  fell  between  six  and 

seven, 

A  little  feathery  fall  so  light,  so  dry  — 
An  aimless  dust  out  of  a  confused  heaven, 
Upon  an  air  no  steadier  than  a  sigh ; 
The  powder  dusted  down  and  wandered  by 
So  purposeless,   so  many,   and  so  cold, 
Then  died,  and  the  wind  ceased  and  the 

ship  rolled. 

Rolled   till   she    clanged  —  rolled    till    the 

brain  was  tired, 
Marking    the    acme    of    the    heaves,    the 

pause 


180  DAUBER 

While  the  sea-beauty  rested  and  respired, 
Drinking   great   draughts   of  roller   at   her 

hawse. 

Flutters  of  snow  came  aimless  upon  flaws. 
"Lock   up   your   paints,"    the   Mate   said, 

speaking  light : 
"This  is  the  Horn;   you'll  join  my  watch 

to-night!" 


. 
VI 


ALL  through  the  windless  night  the  clipper 

rolled 

In  a  great  swell  with  oily  gradual  heaves 
Which  rolled  her  down  until  her  time-bells 

tolled, 
Clang,    and    the   weltering   water   moaned 

like  beeves. 
The  thundering  rattle  of  slatting  shook  the 

sheaves, 


DAUBER 

Startles  of  water  made  the  swing  ports 
gush, 

The  sea  was  moaning  and  sighing  and  say- 
ing "Hush!" 

It    was    all    black    and    starless.    Peering 

down 

Into  the  water,  trying  to  pierce  the  gloom, 
One   saw   a   dim,    smooth,    oily    glitter   of 

brown 
Heaving    and    dying    away    and    leaving 

room 

For  yet  another.      Like  the  march  of  doom 
Came    those    great    powers    of    marching 

silences ; 
Then  fog  came  down,  dead-cold,   and  hid. 

the  seas. 

They  set  the  Dauber  to  the  foghorn.    There 
He  stood  upon  the  poop,  making  to  sound 


182  DAUBER 

Out  of  the  pump  the  sailor's  nasal  blare, 
Listening   lest   ice   should   make   the   note 

resound. 

She  bayed  there  like  a  solitary  hound 
Lost    in    a    covert;    all    the    watch    she 

bayed. 
The  fog,   come  closelier  down,   no  answer 

made. 

Denser  it  grew,  until  the  ship  was  lost. 
The  elemental  hid  her;     she  was  merged 
In  mufflings  of  dark  death,   like  a  man's 

ghost, 
New  to  the  change  of  death,  yet  thither 

urged. 
Then   from   the   hidden   waters   something 

surged  — 
Mournful,    despairing,   great,   greater   than 

speech, 
A  noise  like  one  slow  wave  on  a  still  beach. 


DAUBER  183 

Mournful,   and  then  again  mournful,   and 

still 

Out  of  the  night  that  mighty  voice  arose; 
The  Dauber  at  his  foghorn  felt  the  thrill. 
Who  rode  that  desolate  sea?  What  forms 

were  those? 
Mournful,    from    things    defeated,    in    the 

throes 
Of    memory    of    some    conquered    hunting- 

ground, 
Out  of  the  night  of  death  arose  the  sound. 

"Whales!"    said  the  Mate.      They  stayed 

there  all  night  long 
Answering   the   horn.       Out   of   the   night 

they  spoke, 

Defeated  creatures  who  had  suffered  wrong, 
But  were  still  noble  underneath  the  stroke. 
They  filled  the  darkness  when  the  Dauber 

woke; 


184  DAUBER 

The  men  came  peering  to  the  rail  to  hear, 
And  the  sea  sighed,  and  the  fog  rose  up 
sheer. 

A  wall  of  nothing  at  the  world's  last  edge, 
Where  no  life  came  except  defeated  life. 
The  Dauber  felt  shut  in  within  a  hedge, 
Behind  which  form  was  hidden  and  thought 

was  rife, 

And  that  a  blinding  flash,  a  thrust,  a  knife 
Would   sweep   the  hedge   away  and  make 

all  plain, 
Brilliant    beyond    all    words,    blinding   the 

brain. 

So  the  night  passed,  but  then  no  morning 

broke  — 
Only  a  something  showed  that  night  was 

dead. 
A  sea-bird,  cackling  like  a  devil,  spoke, 


DAUBER  185 

And  the  fog  drew  away  and  hung  like 
lead. 

like  mighty  cliffs  it  shaped,  sullen  and  red; 

Like  glowering  gods  at  watch  it  did  ap- 
pear, 

And  sometimes  drew  away,  and  then  drew 
near. 

Like  islands,  and  like  chasms,  and  like  hell, 
But  always  mighty  and  red,   gloomy  and 

ruddy, 

Shutting  the  visible  sea  in  like  a  well; 
Slow   heaving   in   vast   ripples,    blank   and 

muddy, 
Where  the  sun  should  have  risen  it  streaked 

bloody. 
The  day  was  still-born ;     all  the  sea-fowl 

scattering 
Splashed  the  still  water,  mewing,  hovering, 

clattering. 


186  DAUBER 

Then   Polar   snow   came   down   little   and 

light, 

Till  all  the  sky  was  hidden  by  the  small, 
Most  multitudinous  drift  of  dirty  white 
Tumbling  and  wavering  down  and  covering 

all  — 

Covering  the  sky,  the  sea,  the  clipper  tall, 
Furring  the  ropes  with   white,   casing  the 

mast, 
Coming  on  no  known  air,  but  blowing  past. 

And   all    the    air    seemed    full    of   gradual 

moan, 
As  though  in  those  cloud-chasms  the  horns 

were  blowing 

The  mort  for  gods  cast  out  and  overthrown, 
Or   for   the   eyeless   sun   plucked   out   and 

going. 
Slow  the  low  gradual  moan  came  in  the 

snowing ; 


DAUBER  187 

The   Dauber  felt  the  prelude  had  begun. 
The  snowstorm  fluttered  by;     he  saw  the 
sun 

Show  and  pass  by,  gleam  from  one  towering 

prison 

Into  another,  vaster  and  more  grim, 
Which  in  dull  crags  of  darkness  had  arisen 
To  muffle-to  a  final  door  on  him. 
The  gods  upon  the  dull  crags  lowered  dim, 
The  pigeons   chattered,   quarrelling  in   the 

track. 
In   the   south-west   the   dimness   dulled   to 

black. 

Then  came  the  cry  of  "Call  all  hands  on 

deck!" 
The    Dauber   knew    its   meaning;     it   was 

come : 
Cape  Horn,  that  tramples  beauty  into  wreck, 


188  DAUBER 

And  crumples  steel  and  smites  the  strong 
man  dumb. 

Down  clattered  flying  kites  and  staysails : 
some 

Sang  out  in  quick,  high  calls:  the  fair- 
leads  skirled, 

And  from  the  south-west  came  the  end  of 
the  world. 

"Caught  in  her  ball-dress,"  said  the  Bosun, 

hauling ; 
"Lee-ay,    lee-ay!"  quick,    high,   came    the 

men's  call; 

It  was  all  wallop  of  sails  and  startled  calling. 
" Let  fly  ! "    "Let  go  ! "    "Clew  up  ! "    and 

"Let  go  all!" 
"Now  up  and  make  them  fast!"     "Here, 

give  us  a  haul ! " 
"Now   up    and    stow    them!    Quick!    By 

God!    we're  done,!" 


DAUBER  189 

The  blackness  crunched  all  memory  of  the 

sun. 

/  x..  s 

" Up! "said    the     Mate.        "Mizen     top- 
gallants.   Hurry!" 

The  Dauber  ran,  the  others  ran,  the  sails 
Slatted    and    shook;    out   of  the  black   a 

flurry 
Whirled   in   fine   lines,    tattering   the   edge 

to  trails. 
Painting   and   art   and   England   were   old 

tales 

Told  in  some  other  life  to  that  pale  man, 
Who  struggled  with  white  fear  and  gulped 
and  ran. 

He  struck  a  ringbolt  in  his  haste  and  fell  — 
Rose,  sick  with  pain,  half-lamed  in  his  left 

knee; 
He  reached  the  shrouds  where  clambering 

men  pell-mell 


190  DAUBER 

Hustled  each  other  up  and  cursed  him; 
he 

Hurried  aloft  with  them:  then  from  the 
sea 

Came  a  cold,  sudden  breath  that  made 
the  hair 

Stiff  on  the  neck,  as  though  Death  whis- 
pered there. 

A   man   below   him   punched   him   hi   the 

side. 

"Get  up,  you  Dauber,  or  let  me  get  past." 
He  saw  the  belly  of  the  skysail  skied, 
Gulped,   and   clutched   tight,   and   tried   to 

go  more  fast. 
Sometimes  he  missed  his  ratline  and  was 

grassed, 

Scraped  his  shin  raw  against  the  rigid  line. 
The   clamberers      reached      the      futtock- 

shrouoV  incline. 


DAUBER  191 

Cursing  they  came;  one,  kicking  out  be- 
hind, 

Kicked  Dauber  in  the  mouth,  and  one  be- 
low 

Punched  at  his  calves ;  the  futtock-shrouds 
inclined; 

It  was  a  perilous  path  for  one  to  go. 

"Up,  Dauber,  up!"  A  curse  followed  a 
blow. 

He  reached  the  top  and  gasped,  then  on, 
then  on. 

And  one  voice  yelled  "Let  go!"  and  one 
"All  gone!" 

Fierce  clamberers,   some  hi  oilskins,   some 

in  rags, 
Hustling   and   hurrying   up,    up    the   steep 

stairs. 
Before   the   windless   sails   were   blown   to 


192  DAUBER 

And  whirled  like  dirty  birds  athwart  great  airs, 
Ten  men  in  all,  to  get  this  mast  of  theirs 
Snugged  to  the  gale  in  time.  "Up !  Damn 

you,  run!" 
The  mizen  topmast  head  was  safely  won. 

"Lay  out !"  the  Bosun  yelled.    The  Dauber 

laid 
Out  on  the  yard,  gripping  the  yard,  and 

feeling 

Sick  at  the  mighty  space  of  air  displayed 
Below  his  feet,  where  mewing  birds  were 

wheeling. 

A  giddy  fear  was  on  him;  he  was  reeling. 
He  bit  his  lip  half  through,  clutching  the 

jack. 
A    cold    sweat   glued    the    shirt   upon  his 

back. 

The   yard   was   shaking,   for  a  brace  was 
loose. 


DAUBER  193 

He  felt  that  he  would  fall;     he  clutched, 

he  bent, 

Clammy  with  natural  terror  to  the  shoes 
While  idiotic  promptings  came  and  went. 
Snow  fluttered  on  a  wind-flaw  and  was 

spent ; 

He  saw  the  water  darken.  Someone  yelled, 
"Frap  it;  don't  stay  to  furl!  Hold  on!" 

He  held. 

Darkness  came  down  —  half  darkness  —  in 

a  whirl; 

The  sky  went  out,  the  waters  disappeared. 
He  felt  a  shocking  pressure  of  blowing  hurl 
The  ship  upon  her  side.  The  darkness 

speared 
At    her    with    wind;      she    staggered,    she 

careered, 
Then  down  she  lay.    The  Dauber  felt  her 

go; 


194  DAUBER 

He   saw   his   yard   tilt   downwards.    Then 
the  snow 

Whirled  all   about  —  dense,   multitudinous, 

cold  — 
Mixed  with  the  wind's  one  devilish  thrust 

and  shriek, 
Which  whiffled  out  men's  tears,  deafened, 

took  hold, 
Flattening    the    flying    drift    against    the 

cheek. 
The  yards  buckled  and  bent,  man  could  not 

speak. 
The  ship  lay  on  her  broadside;    the  wind's 

sound 
Had    devilish    malice    at    having    got    her 

downed. 

***** 

How  long  the  gale  had  blown  he  could  not 
tell, 


DAUBER  195 

Only  the  world  had  changed,  his  life  had 

died. 

A  moment  now  was  everlasting  hell. 
Nature    an    onslaught    from    the    weather 

side, 
A  withering  rush   of   death,   a   frost   that 

cried, 
Shrieked,  till  he  withered  at  the  heart;  a 

hail 
Plastered  his  oilskins  with  an  icy  mail. 

"Cut!"  yelled  his  mate.     He  looked  —  the 

sail  was  gone, 

Blown  into  rags  in  the  first  furious  squall; 
The   tatters   drummed   the   devil's   tattoo. 

On 
The  buckling  yard  a  block  thumped  like 

a  mall. 
The   ship    lay  —  the   sea   smote   her,    the 

wind's  bawl 


196  DAUBER 

Came,  "loo,  loo,  loo!"       The  devil  cried 

his  hounds 
On  to  the  poor  spent  stag  strayed  in  his 

bounds. 

"Cut!    Ease  her!"    yelled  his  mate;    the 

Dauber  heard. 
His  mate  worme.d  up  the  tilted  yard  and 

slashed, 

A  rag  of  canvas  skimmed  like  a  darting  bird. 
The  snow  whirled,   the  ship  bowed  to  it, 

the  gear  lashed, 
The  sea-tops  were  cut  off  and  flung  down 

smashed ; 
Tatters  of  shouts  were  flung,  the  rags  of 

yells  — 
And   clang,   clang,    clang,   below  beat   the 

two  bells. 

"0  God!"   the  Dauber  moaned.    A  roar- 
ing rang, 


DAUBER  197 

Blasting  the  royals  like  a  cannonade; 

The  backstays  parted  with  a  cracking  clang, 

The  upper  spars  were  snapped  like  twigs 
decayed  — 

Snapped  at  their  heels,  their  jagged  splin- 
ters splayed, 

Like  white  and  ghastly  hair  erect  with  fear. 

The  Mate  yelled,  "Gone,  by  God,  and 
pitched  them  clear  I" 

"Up!"  yelled  the  Bosun;    "up  and  clear 

the  wreck  I" 

The  Dauber  followed  where  he  led :  below 
He  caught  one  giddy  glimpsing  of  the  deck 
Filled  with  white  water,  as  though  heaped 

with  snow. 

He  saw   the  streamers  of  the  rigging  blow 
Straight  out  like  pennons  from  the  splin- 
tered mast, 
Then,  all  sense  dimmed,  all  was  an  icy  blast 


198  DAUBER 

Roaring  from  nether  hell  and  filled  with  ice, 
Roaring  and  crashing  on  the  jerking  stage, 
An  utter  bridle  given  to  utter  vice, 
Limitless  power  mad  with  endless  rage 
Withering  the  soul;  a  minute  seemed   an 

age. 
He  clutched  and  hacked  at  ropes,  at  rags 

of  sail, 
Thinking  that  comfort  was  a  fairy-tale 

Told  long  ago  —  long,  long  ago  —  long  since 
Heard      of     in      other      lives  —  imagined, 

dreamed  — 

There  where  the  basest  beggar  was  a  prince 
To    Mm    in    torment    where    the    tempest 

screamed, 
Comfort   and  warmth   and   ease   no  longer 

seemed 
Things  that  a  man  could  know :    soul,  body, 

brain, 


DAUBER  199 

Knew  nothing  but  the  wind,  the  cold,  the 
pain. 

"Leave  that!"  the  Bosun  shouted;  "Cro- 

jick  save !" 

The  splitting  crojick,  not  yet  gone  to  rags, 
Thundered    below,    beating    till  something 

gave, 

Bellying  between  its  buntlines  into  bags. 
Some    birds    were    blown    past,   shrieking: 

dark,  like  shags, 
Their  backs  seemed,  looking  down.     "Leu, 

leu !"  they  cried. 
The  ship  lay,  the  seas  thumped  her;  she 

had  died. 

They    reached    the    crojick    yard,     which 

buckled,  buckled 
Like    a    thin    whalebone    to    the    topsail's 

strain. 


200  DAUBER 

They  laid  upon  the  yard  and  heaved  and 

knuckled, 
Pounding  the  sail,  which  jangled  and  leapt 

again. 
It  was  quite  hard  with  ice,  its  rope  like 

chain, 
Its  strength  like  seven  devils;  it  shook  the 

mast. 
They  cursed  and  toiled  and  froze:  a  long 

tune  passed. 

Two  hours  passed,  then  a  dim  lightening 

came. 
Those   frozen   ones   upon   the   yard   could 

see 

The  mainsail  and  the  foresail  still  the  same, 
Still  battling  with  the  hands  and  blowing 

free, 
Rags  tattered  where  the  staysails  used  to 

be. 


DAUBER  201 

The    lower    topsails   stood;    the  ship's  lee 

deck 
Seethed  with  four  feet  of  water  filled  with 

wreck. 

An  hour  more  went  by;  the  Dauber  lost 
All  sense  of  hands  and  feet,  all  sense  of  all 
But  of  a  wind  that  cut  him  to  the  ghost, 
And  of  a  frozen  fold  he  had  to  haul, 
Of  heavens  that  fell  and  never  ceased  to 

fall, 

And  ran  in  smoky  snatches  along  the  sea, 
Leaping  from  crest  to  wave-crest,  yelling. 

He 

Lost  sense  of  time;  no  bells  went,  but  he 

felt 

Ages  go  over  him.    At  last,  at  last 
They  frapped  the  cringled  crojick's  icy  pelt ; 
In  frozen  bulge  and  bunt  they  made  it  fast. 


202  DAUBER 

Then,  scarcely  live,  they  laid  in  to  the  mast. 
The    Captain's   speaking   trumpet   gave   a 

blare, 
"Make  fast  the  topsail,  Mister,  while  you're 

there." 

Some  seamen  cursed,  but  up  they  had  to 

go  — 

Up  to  the  topsail  yard  to  spend  an  hour 
Stowing  a  topsail  in  a  blinding  snow, 
Which  made  the  strongest  man  among  them 

cower. 
More  men  came  up,  the  fresh  hands  gave 

them  power, 
They  stowed  the  sail;    then  with  a  rattle 

of  chain 

One  half  the  crojick  burst  its  bonds  again. 
*  *  *  *  * 

They  stowed  the  sail,  frapping  it  round  with 
rope, 


DA  USER  203 

Leaving  no  surface  for  the  wind,  no  fold, 
Then  down  the  weather  shrouds,  half  dead, 

they  grope; 
That  struggle  with  the  sail  had  made  them 

old. 
They  wondered  if  the  crojick  furl  would 

hold. 
"Lucky,"  said  one,   "it  didn't  spring  the 

spar." 
"Lucky!"   the  Bosun  said,    "Lucky!    We 

are ! 

She   came   within   two   shakes   of   turning 

top 
Or    stripping    all    her    shroud-screws,  that 

first  quiff. 
Now  fish  those  wash-deck  buckets  out  of 

the  slop. 
Here's  Dauber  says  he  doesn't  like  Cape 

Stiff. 


204  DAUBER 

This  isn't  wind,  man,  this  is  only  a  whiff. 
Hold  on,  all  hands,  hold  on!"  a  sea,  half 

seen, 
Paused,    mounted,    burst,    and    filled    the 

main-deck  green. 

The  Dauber  felt  a  mountain  of  water  fall. 
It  covered  him  deep,  deep,  he  felt  it  fill, 
Over  his  head,  the  deck,  the  fife-rails,  all, 
Quieting  the  ship,  she  trembled  and  lay 

still. 

Then  with  a  rush  and  shatter  and  clang- 
ing shrill 

Over  she  went;  he  saw  the  water  cream 
Over    the    bitts;    he    saw    the    half -deck 
stream. 

Then  in  the  rush  he  swirled,  over  she  went ; 
Her  lee-rail  dipped,  he  struck,  and  some- 
thing gave; 


DAUBER  205 

His  legs  went  through  a  port  as  the  roll 

spent ; 
She  paused,  then  rolled,  and  back  the  water 

drave. 

He  drifted  with  it  as  a  part  of  the  wave, 
Drowning,   half-stunned,   exhausted,   partly 

frozen, 
He  struck  the  booby  hatchway;  then  the 

Bosun 

Leaped,  seeing  his  chance,  before  the  next 

sea  burst, 
And  caught  him  as  he  drifted,  seized  him, 

held, 

Up-ended  him  against  the  bitts,  and  cursed. 
"This  ain't  the  George's  Swimming  Baths," 

he  yelled; 
"Keep  on  your  feet!"     Another  grey-back 

felled 
The  two  together,  and  the  Bose,  half-blind, 


206  DAUBER 

Spat:     "One's  a  joke,"  he  cursed,    "but 
two's  unkind." 

"Now,  damn  it,  Dauber!"  said  the  Mate. 

"Look  out, 
Or  you'll  be  over  the  side!"    The  water 

freed; 

Each  clanging  freeing-port  became  a  spout. 
The  men  cleared  up  the  decks  as  there  was 

need. 

The  Dauber's  head  was  cut,  he  felt  it  bleed 
Into  his  oilskins  as  he  clutched  and  coiled. 
Water  and  sky  were  devils'  brews  which 

boiled, 

Boiled,   shrieked,   and    glowered;    but    the 

ship  was  saved. 
Snugged  safely  down,  though  fourteen  sails 

were  split. 
Out  of  the  dark  a  fiercer  fury  raved. 


DAUBER  207 

The   grey-backs   died   and   mounted,    each 

crest  lit 
With  a  white  toppling  gleam    that  hissed 

from  it 
And  slid,  or  leaped,  or  ran  with  whirls  of 

cloud, 
Mad  with  inhuman  life  that  shrieked  aloud. 

The  watch  was  called;  Dauber  might  go 

below. 
"Splice  the  main  brace!"  the  Mate  called. 

All  laid  aft 

To  get  a  gulp  of  momentary  glow 
As   some    reward    for    having    saved    the 

craft. 
The  steward  ladled  mugs,  from  which  each 

quaff'd 
Whisky,  with  water,  sugar,  and  lime-juice, 

hot, 
A  quarter  of  a  pint  each  made  the  tot. 


208  DAUBER 

Beside    the    lamp-room    door    the    steward 

stood 

Ladling  it  out,  and  each  man  came  in  turn, 
Tipped  his  sou'-wester,   drank  it,   grunted 

"Good!" 
And   shambled   forward,    letting   it   slowly 

burn: 
When   all   were   gone   the   Dauber   lagged 

astern, 

Torn  by  his  frozen  body's  lust  for  heat, 
The  liquor's   pleasant  smell,   so   warm,   so 

sweet, 

And  by  a  promise  long  since  made  at  home 
Never    to    taste    strong    liquor.     Now    he 

knew 
The    worth    of    liquor;      now    he    wanted 

some. 

His  frozen  body  urged  him  to  the  brew; 
Yet  it  seemed  wrong,  an  evil  thing  to  do 


DAUBER  209 

To   break   that   promise.    "Dauber,"    said 

the  Mate, 
" Drink,  and  turn  in,  man;    why  the  hell 

d'ye  wait?" 

"Please,  sir,  I'm  temperance."  "Temper- 
ance are  you,  hey? 

That's  all  the  more  for  me !  So  you're 
for  slops? 

I  thought  you'd  had  enough  slops  for  to- 
day. 

Go  to  your  bunk  and  ease  her  when  she 
drops. 

And  —  damme,  steward  !  you  brew  with 
too  much  hops ! 

Stir  up  the  sugar,  man  !  —  and  tell  your  girl 

How  kind  the  Mate  was  teaching  you  to 
furl." 

Then  the  Mate  drank  the  remnants,  six 
men's  share. 


210  DAUBER 

And    ramped    into    his    cabin,    where    he 

stripped 
And   danced   unclad,    and   was   uproarious 

there. 

In  waltzes  with  the  cabin  cat  he  tripped, 
Singing  in  tenor  clear  that  he  was  pipped  — 
That  "he  who  strove  the  tempest  to  dis- 
arm, 
Must   never    first   embrail    the    lee    yard- 


arm," 


And  that  his  name  was  Ginger.      Dauber 

crept 
Back  to  the  round-house,  gripping  by  the 

rail. 
The  wind  howled  by ;  the  passionate  water 

leapt ; 

The  night  was  all  one  roaring  with  the  gale. 
Then  at  the  door  he  stopped,  uttering  a 

wail; 


DAUBER  211 

His  hands  were  perished  numb  and  blue  as 

veins, 
He  could  not  turn  the  knob  for  both  the 

Spains. 

A  hand  came  shuffling  aft,  dodging  the  seas,  *" 
Singing  "her  nut-brown  hair"  between  his 

teeth; 

Taking  the  ocean's  tumult  at  his  ease 
Even  when  the  wash  about  his  thighs  did 

seethe. 

His  soul  was  happy  in  its  happy  sheath ;  "" 
"What,   Dauber,  won't  it  open?    Fingers 

cold? 
You'll    talk    of    this    time,    Dauber,  when 

you're  old." 

He  flung  the  door  half  open,  and  a  sea 
Washed   them   both   in,    over   the  splash- 
board, down; 


212  DAUBER 

"You]  silly,    salt    miscarriage!"    sputtered 

he. 
"Dauber,    pull    out    the   plug   before  we 

drown ! 
That's    spoiled    my   laces    and    my    velvet 

gown. 
Where    is   the   plug?"    Groping   in   pitch 

dark  water, 
He  sang  between  his  teeth  "The  Farmer's 

Daughter." 

It  was  pitch  dark  within  there ;  at  each  roll 
The  chests  slid  to  the  slant;  the  water 

rushed, 

Making  full  many  a  clanging  tin  pan  bowl 
Into  the  black  below-bunks  as  it  gushed. 
The  dog-tired  men  slept  through  it;  they 

were  hushed. 
The  water  drained,  and  then  with  matches 

damp 


DAUBER  213 

The  man  struck  heads  off  till  he  lit  the  lamp. 

''Thank  you,"  the  Dauber  said;   the  sea- 
man grinned. 

"This  is  your  first  foul  weather?"    "Yes." 
"I  thought 

Up  on  the  yard  you  hadn't  seen  much  wind. 

Them's  rotten  sea-boots,  Dauber,  that  you 
brought. 

Now    I    must    cut    on    deck    before    I'm 
caught." 

He    went;    the    lamp-flame    smoked;    he 
slammed  the  door; 

A  film  of  water  loitered  across  the  floor. 

The  Dauber  watched  it  come  and  watched 

it  go; 

He  had  had  revelation  of  the  lies 
Cloaking  the  truth   men  never  choose  to 

know;          x    i  4- 


214  DAUBER 

He   could   bear   witness   now   and   cleanse 

their  eyes. 

He  had  beheld  in  suffering;  he  was  wise; 
This  was  the  sea,  this  searcher  of  the  soul  — 
This  never-dying  shriek  fresh  from  the 

Pole. 

He  shook  with  cold;    his  hands  could  not 

undo 

His  oilskin  buttons,  so  he  shook  and  sat,    , 
Watching  his  dirty  fingers,  dirty  blue, 
Hearing  without  the  hammering  tackle  slat, 
Within,    the    drops    from    dripping    clothes 

went  pat, 

Running  in  little  patters,  gentle,   sweet, 
And  "Ai,   ai!"     went  the  wind,   and  the 

seas  beat. 

His  bunk  was  sopping  wet ;    he  clambered 
in. 


DA  USER  215 

None  of  his   clothes  were  dry;     his  fear 

recurred. 
Cramps   bunched   the   muscles   underneath 

his  skin. 
The  great  ship  rolled  until  the  lamp  was 

blurred. 

He  took  his  Bible  and  tried  to  read  a  word ; 
Trembled  at  going  aloft  again,  and  then 
Resolved  to  fight  it  out  and  show  it  to 

men. 

Faces  recurred,  fierce  memories  of  the  yard, 
The  frozen  sail,  the  savage  eyes,  the  jests, 
The   oaths   of   one   great  seaman,  syphilis- 
scarred, 
The  tug  of  leeches  jammed  beneath  their 

chests, 
The    buntlines    bellying    bunts    out    into 

breasts. 
The  deck  so  desolate-grey,  the  sky  so  wild, 


216  DAUBER 

He  fell  asleep,  and  slept  like  a  young 
child. 

But  not  for  long;  the  cold  awoke  him 
soon, 

The  hot-ache  and  the  skin-cracks  and  the 
cramp, 

The  seas  thundering  without,  the  gale's 
wild  tune, 

The  sopping  misery  of  the  blankets  damp. 

A  speaking-trumpet  roared;  a  sea-boot's 
stamp 

Clogged  at  the  door.  A  man  entered  to 
shout : 

"All  hands  on  deck!  Arouse  here!  Tum- 
ble out!" 

The   caller  raised   the   lamp ;     his   oilskins 

clicked 
As  the  thin  ice  upon  them  cracked  and 

fell. 


DAUBER  217 

" Rouse    out!"    he    said.      " This  lamp  is 

frozen  wick'd. 
Rouse  out!"       His  accent  deepened  to  a 

yell. 
"We're    among  ice;  it's  blowing    up    like 

hell. 
We're  going  to  hand  both  topsails.      Time, 

I  guess, 
We're    sheeted    up.        Rouse    out !    Don't 

stay  to  dress !" 

"Is  it  cold  on  deck?"    said  Dauber.    "Is 

it  cold? 

We're  sheeted  up,  I  tell  you,  inches  thick ! 
The    fo'c'sle's    like    a    wedding-cake,    I'm 

told. 
Now  tumble  out,  my  sons;  on  deck  here, 

quick ! 
Rouse  out,  away,  and  come  and  climb  the 

stick. 


218  DAUBER 

I'm  going   to   call   the   half-deck.     Bosun ! 

Hey! 
Both    topsails    coming    in.      Heave    out ! 

Away!" 

He  went;     the  Dauber  tumbled  from  his 

bunk, 
Clutching  the  side.    He  heard  the  wind  go 

past, 

Making  the  great  ship  wallow  as  if  drunk. 
There  was  a  shocking  tumult  up  the  mast. 
"This  is  the  end,"  he  muttered,  "come  at 

last! 

Fve  got  to  go  aloft,  facing  this  cold. 
I  can't.    I  can't.    I'll  never  keep  my  hold. 

"I  cannot  face  the  topsail  yard  again. 
I  never  guessed  what  misery  it  would  be." 
The  cramps  and  hot-ache  made  him  sick 
with  pain. 


DAUBER  219 

The  ship  stopped  suddenly  from  a  devilish 

sea, 
Then,  with  a  triumph  of  wash,  a  rush  of 

glee, 

The  door  burst  in,  and  in  the  water  rolled, 
Filling  the  lower  bunks,   black,   creaming, 

cold. 

The   lamp   sucked   out.      "Wash!"    went 

the  water  back, 

Then  in  again,  flooding;    the  Bosun  swore. 
"You   useless   thing  I    You   Dauber!    You 

lee  slack ! 

Get  out,  you  heekapoota !    Shut  the  door ! 
You    coo-ilyaira,    what    are    you    waiting 

for? 
Out  of  my  way,   you  thing  —  you  useless 

thing!" 
He  slammed  the  door  indignant,   clanging 

the  ring. 


220  DAUBER 

And  then  he  lit  the  lamp,  drowned  to  the 
waist; 

" Here's  a  fine  house!  Get  at  the  scupper- 
holes  "- 

He  bent  against  it  as  the  water  raced  — 

"And  pull  them  out  to  leeward  when  she 
rolls. 

They  say  some  kinds  of  landsmen  don't 
have  souls. 

I  well  believe.    A  Port  Mahon  baboon 

Would  make  more  soul  than  you  got  with 
a  spoon." 

Down  in  the  icy  water  Dauber  groped 
To  find  the  plug;  the  racing  water  sluiced 
Over  his  head  and  shoulders  as  she  sloped. 
Without,  judged  by  the  sound,  all  hell  was 

loosed. 
He    felt    cold    Death    about    him    tightly 

noosed. 


DAUBER  221 

That   Death   was  better  than   the  misery 

there 
Iced  on  the  quaking  foothold  high  in  air. 

And  then  the  thought  came :  "I'm  a  failure. 
All 

My  life  has  been  a  failure.  They  were 
right. 

It  will  not  matter  if  I  go  and  fall; 

I  should  be  free  then  from  this  hell's  de- 
light. 

I'll  never  paint.    Best  let  it  end  to-night. 

I'll  slip  over  the  side.  I've  tried  and 
failed." 

So  in  the  ice-cold  in  the  night  he  quailed. 

Death  would  be  better,   death,   than  this 

long  hell 

Of  mockery  and  surrender  and  dismay  — 
This   long   defeat   of   doing   nothing   well, 


222  DAUBER 

Playing    the    part    too    high    for    him    to 

play. 

"0  Death  !  who  hides  the  sorry  thing  away, 
Take  me ;    I've  failed.     I  cannot  play  these 

cards." 
There  came  a  thundering  from  the  topsail 

yards. 

And  then  he  bit  his  lips,  clenching  his 
mind, 

And  staggered  out  to  muster,  beating  back 

The  coward  frozen  self  of  him  that  whined. 

Come  what  cards  might  he  meant  to  play 
the  pack. 

"Ai!"  screamed  the  wind;  the  topsail 
sheet  went  clack; 

Ice  filled  the  air  with  spikes;  the  grey- 
backs  burst. 

"Here's  Dauber,"  said  the  Mate,  "on  deck 
the  first. 


DAUBER  223 

"Why,  holy  sailor,  Dauber,  you're  a  man ! 
I  took  you  for  a  soldier.     Up  now,  come !" 
Up  on  the  yards  already  they  began 
That  battle  with  a  gale  which  strikes  men 

dumb. 

The  leaping  topsail  thundered  like  a  drum. 
The  frozen  snow  beat  in  the  face  like  shots. 
The  wind  spun  whipping  wave-crests  into 

clots. 

So  up  upon  the  topsail  yard  again, 
In  the  great  tempest's  fiercest  hour,  began 
Probation  to  the  Dauber's  soul,  of  pain 
Which  crowds  a  century's  torment  in  a  span. 
For  the  next  month  the  ocean  taught  this 

man, 
And   he,   in   that   month's   torment,    while 

she  wested, 
Was    never   warm    nor    dry,    nor   full    nor 

rested. 


224  DAUBER 

But  still  it  blew,  or,  if  it  lulled,  it  rose 
Within  the  hour  and  blew  again;  and  still 
The  water  as  it  burst  aboard  her  froze. 
The  wind  blew  off  an  ice-field,  raw  and  chill, 
Daunting  man's  body,  tampering  with  his 

will; 

But  after  thirty  days  a  ghostly  sun 
Gave  sickly  promise  that  the  storms  were 

done. 

VII 

A  GREAT  grey  sea  was  running  up  the  sky, 
Desolate   birds   flew  past;     their  mewings 

came 

As  that  lone  water's  spiritual  cry, 
Its  forlorn  voice,  its  essence,  its  soul's  name. 
The  ship  limped  in  the  water  as  if  lame. 
Then   in   the   forenoon   watch   to   a    great 

shout 


DAUBER  225 

More  sail  was  made,  the  reefs  were  shaken 
out. 

A  slant  came  from  the  south;  the  singers 

stood 

Clapped  to  the  halliards,  hauling  to  a  tune, 
Old  as  the  sea,  a  fillip  to  the  blood. 
The  upper  topsail  rose  like  a  balloon. 
"So     long,     Cape     Stiff.       In   Valparaiso 

soon," 

Said  one  to  other,  as  the  ship  lay  over, 
Making  her  course  again  — again  a  rover. 

Slowly   the   sea   went   down   as   the   wind 

fell. 
Clear  rang  the  songs,  "Hurrah !  Cape  Horn 

is  bet!" 

The  combless  seas  were  lumping  into  swell ; 
The  leaking  foVsles  were  no  longer  wet. 
More  sail  was  made;  the  watch  on  deck 

was  set 


226  DAUBER 

To  cleaning  up  the  ruin  broken  bare 
Below,  aloft,  about  her,  everywhere. 

The  Dauber,  scrubbing  out  the  round- 
house, found 

Old  pantiles  pulped  among  the  mouldy 
gear, 

Washed  underneath  the  bunks  and  long 
since  drowned 

During  the  agony  of  the  Cape  Horn  year. 

He  sang  in  scrubbing,  for  he  had  done  with 
fear  — 

Fronted  the  worst  and  looked  it  in  the 
face; 

He  had  got  manhood  at  the  testing-place. 

Singing    he    scrubbed,    passing    his    watch 

below, 
Making  the  round-house  fair;     the  Bosun 

watched, 


DAUBER  227 

Bringing  his  knitting  slowly  to  the  toe. 
Sails   stretched   a  mizen   skysail   which   he 

patched ; 
They  thought  the  Dauber  was  a  bad  egg 

hatched. 
"Daubs,"  said  the  Bosun  cheerly,  "can  you 

knit? 
I've  made   a   Barney's   bull    of    this    last 

bit." 

Then,   while   the   Dauber   counted,    Bosun 

took 
Some    marline    from   his   pocket.     "Here," 

he  said, 
"You   want   to   know   square   sennit?    So 

fash.     Look ! 
Eight  foxes  take,  and  stop  the  ends  with 

thread. 
I've   known    an    engineer   would   give   his 

head 


228  DAUBER 

To    know    square    sennit."    As    the    Bose 

began, 
The  Dauber  felt  promoted  into  man. 

It  was  his  warrant  that  he  had  not  failed  — 
That  the  most  hard  part  in  his   difficult 

climb 
Had   not   been   past   attainment;     it   was 

scaled : 
Safe    footing    showed    above    the    slippery 

slime. 

He  had  emerged  out  of  the  iron  time, 
And  knew  that  he  could  compass  his  life's 

scheme ; 
He  had  the  power  sufficient  to  his  dream. 

Then  dinner  came,  and  now  the  sky  was 

blue. 
The  ship  was  standing  north,  the  Horn  was 

rounded ; 


DAUBER  229 

She   made   a   thundering   as   she   weltered 

through. 
The    mighty    grey-backs    glittered    as    she 

bounded. 
More  sail  was  piled  upon  her;     she  was 

hounded 
North,  while  the  wind  came;  like  a  stag 

she  ran 
Over  grey  hills  and  hollows  of  seas  wan. 

She  had  a  white  bone  in  her  mouth:    she 

sped; 
Those  in  the  round-house  watched  her  as 

they  ate 
Their  meal  of  pork-fat  fried  with  broken 

bread. 
"Good  old!"  they  cried.    "She's  off;  she's 

gathering  gait!" 

Her  track  was  whitening  like  a  Lammas 
spate. 


230  DAUBER 

"Good   old!"  they   cried.     "Oh,   give   her 

cloth !    Hurray ! 
For  three  weeks  more  to  Valparaiso  Bay ! 

"She  smells  old  Vallipo,"  the  Bosun  cried. 
"We'll  be  inside  the  tier  in  three  weeks 

more, 

Lying  at  double-moorings  where  they  ride 
Off  of  the  market,  half  a  mile  from  shore, 
And  bumboat  pan,  my  sons,  and  figs  galore, 
And  girls  in  black  mantillas  fit  to  make  a 
Poor  seaman  frantic  when  they  dance  the 


Eight    bells    were    made,    the   watch    was 

changed,  and  now 
The  Mate  spoke  to  the  Dauber:    "This  is 

better. 
We'll  soon  be  getting  mudhooks  over  the 

bow. 


DAUBER  231 

She'll  make  her  passage  still  if  this'll  let 

her. 
Oh,  run,  you  drogher !     dip  your  fo'c'sle 

wetter. 
Well,    Dauber,    this    is    better    than    Cape 

Horn. 
Them  topsails  made  you  wish  you'd  not 

been  born." 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  Dauber  said.  "Now,"  said 
the  Mate, 

"We've  got  to  smart  her  up.  Them  Cape 
Horn  seas 

Have  made  her  paint-work  like  a  rusty  grate. , 

Oh,  didn't  them  topsails  make  your  fish- 
hooks freeze? 

A  topsail  don't  pay  heed  to  'Won't  you, 
please  ? ' 

Well,  you  have  seen  Cape  Horn,  my  son; 
you've  learned. 


232  DAUBER 

You've  dipped  your  hand  and  had  your 
fingers  burned. 

"And  now  you'll  stow  that  folly,   trying 

to  paint. 
You've  had  your  lesson;     you're  a  sailor 

now. 

You  come  on  board  a  female  ripe  to  faint. 
All  sorts  of  slush  you'd  learned,  the  Lord 

knows  how. 
Cape  Horn  has  sent  you  wisdom  over  the 

bow 
If  you've  got  sense  to  take  it.    You're  a 

sailor. 
My  God  !  before  you  were  a  woman's  tailor. 

"So  throw  your  paints  to  blazes  and  have 

done. 
Words  can't  describe  the  silly  things  you 

did 


DAUBER  233 

Sitting  before  your  easel  in  the  sun, 
With   all   your   colours   on   the   paint-box 

lid. 
I  blushed  for  you  .  .  .  and  then  the  daubs 

you  hid. 
My  God !  you'll  have  more  sense  now,  eh  ? 

You've  quit?" 
"No,    sir."    "You've    not?"     "No,    sir." 

"God  give  you  wit. 

"I  thought  you'd  come  to  wisdom."    Thus 

they  talked, 
While  the  great  clipper  took  her  bit  and 

rushed 
Like    a    skin-glistening    stallion    not    yet 

baulked, 
Till   fire-bright   water   at   her   swing  ports 

gushed; 
Poising    and    bowing    down    her    fore-foot 

crushed 


234  DAUBER 

Bubble  on  glittering  bubble;  on  she  went. 
The  Dauber  watched  her,  wondering  what 
it  meant. 

To  come,  after  long  months,  at  rosy  dawn, 
Into  the  placid  blue  of  some  great  bay. 
Treading  the  quiet  water  like  a  fawn 
Ere  yet  the  morning  haze  was  blown  away. 
A  rose-flushed  figure  putting  by  the  grey, 
And  anchoring  there  before  the  city  smoke 
Rose,  or  the  church-bells  rang,  or  men 
awoke. 

And  then,  hi  the  first  light,  to  see  grow 
clear 

That  long-expected  haven  filled  with 
strangers  — 

Alive  with  men  and  women;    see  and  hear 

Its  clattering  market  and  its  money- 
changers ; 


DAUBER  235 

And  hear  the  surf  beat,  and  be  free  from 

dangers, 
And  watch  the  crinkled  ocean  blue  with 

calm 
Drowsing  beneath  the  Trade,  beneath  the 

palm. 

Hungry   for   that   he   worked;     the   hour 

went  by, 
And  still  the  wind  grew,   still  the  clipper 

strode, 
And    now    a     darkness    hid    the    western 

sky, 
And  sprays  came  flicking  off  at  the  wind's 

goad. 

She  stumbled  now,  feeling  her  sail  a  load. 
The  Mate  gazed  hard  to  windward,  eyed 

his  sail, 
And  said  the  Horn  was  going  to  flick  her 

tail. 


236  DAUBER 

Boldly  he  kept  it  on  her  till  she  staggered, 

But  still  the  wind  increased;  it  grew,  it 
grew, 

Darkening  the  sky,  making  the  water  hag- 
gard; 

Full  of  small  snow  the  mighty  wester  blew. 

"More  fun  for  little  fish-hooks,"  sighed 
the  crew. 

They  eyed  the  taut  topgallants  stiff  like 
steel; 

A  second  hand  was  ordered  to  the  wheel. 

The  Captain  eyed  her  aft,  sucking  his  lip, 
Feeling  the  sail  too  much,  but  yet  refrain- 
ing 

From  putting  hobbles  on  the  leaping  ship, 
The    glad    sea-shattering    stallion,    halter- 
straining, 

Wing-musical,  uproarious,  and  complain- 
ing; 


DAUBER  237 

But,  in  a  gust,  he  cocked  his  finger,  so : 
"You'd  better  take  them  off,  before  they 
go." 

All  saw.  They  ran  at  once  without  the 
word 

"Lee-ay!  Lee-ay!"  Loud  rang  the  clew- 
line cries ; 

Sam  in  his  bunk  within  the  half-deck  heard, 

Stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  rubbed  his  drowsy 
eyes. 

"There  go  the  lower  to'gallants."  Against 
the  skies 

Rose  the  thin  bellying  strips  of  leaping 
sail. 

The  Dauber  was  the  first  man  over  the 
rail. 

Three  to  a  mast  they  ran;    it  was  a  race. 
"God!"    said   the   Mate;    "that    Dauber, 
he  can  go." 


238  DAUBER 

He  watched  the  runners  with  an  upturned 

face 

Over  the  futtocks,   struggling  heel  to  toe, 
Up    to    the    topmast  cross-trees    into    the 

blow 
Where     the     three     sails     were     leaping. 

"Dauber  wins !" 
The  yards  were  reached,  and  now  the  race 

begins. 

Which  three  will  furl  their   sail  first  and 

come  down? 

Out  to  the  yard-arm  for  the  leech  goes  one, 
His    hair    blown    flagwise    from    a    hatless 

crown, 

His  hands  at  work  like  fever  to  be  done. 
Out  of  the  gale  a  fiercer  fury  spun. 
The   three   sails   leaped   together,    yanking 

high, 
Like  talons  darting  up  to  clutch  the  sky. 


DAUBER  239 

The  Dauber  on  the  fore-topgallant  yard 
Out  at  the  weather  yard-arm  was  the  first 
To  lay  his  hand  upon  the  buntline-barred 
Topgallant  yanking  to  the  westerns  burst; 
He  craned  to  catch  the  leech ;  his  comrades 

cursed ; 
One    at    the    buntlines,    one    with    oaths 

observed, 
"The    eye    of    the     outer    jib-stay    isn't 

served." 

"No,"  said  the  Dauber.  "No,"  the  man 
replied. 

They  heaved,  stowing  the  sail,  not  looking 
round, 

Panting,   but   full   of   life   and   eager-eyed; 

The  gale  roared  at  them  with  its  iron 
sound. 

"That's  you,"  the  Dauber  said.  His  gas- 
ket wound 


240  DAUBER 

Swift  round  the  yard,  binding  the  sail  in 

bands ; 
There  came  a  gust,  the  sail  leaped  from  his 

hands, 

So  that  he  saw  it  high  above  him,  grey, 
And   there  his  mate  was  falling;  quick  he 

clutched 

An  arm  in  oilskins  swiftly  snatched  away. 
A   voice    said    "Christ!"      a    quick   shape 

stooped  and  touched, 
Chain  struck  his  hands,  ropes  shot,  the  sky 

was  smutched 
With  vast  black  fires  that  ran,  that  fell, 

that  furled, 
And  then  he  saw  the  mast,  the  small  snow 

hurled, 

The  fore-topgallant  yard  far,   far  aloft, 
And  blankness  settling  on  him  and  great 
pain; 


DAUBER  241 

And  snow  beneath  his  fingers  wet  and  soft, 
Ajnd    topsail    sheet-blocks    shaking    at    the 

chain. 
He  knew  it  was  he  who  had  fallen ;  then  his 

brain 

Swirled  in  a  circle  while  he  watched  the  sky. 
Infinite  multitudes  of  snow  blew  by. 

"I  thought  it  was  Tom  who  fell,"  his  brain's 
voice  said. 

"Down  on  the  bloody  deck!"  the  Cap- 
tain screamed. 

The  multitudinous  little  snow-flakes  sped. 

His  pain  was  real  enough,  but  all  else 
seemed. 

Si  with  a  bucket  ran,  the  water  gleamed 

Tilting  upon  him;  others  came,  the 
Mate  .  .  . 

They  knelt  with  eager  eyes  like  things  that 
wait 


242  DAUBER 

For  other  things  to  come.    He  saw  them 

there. 

"It  will  go  on,"  he  murmured,  watching  Si. 
Colours  and  sounds  seemed  mixing  in  the 

air, 
The  pain  was  stunning  him,  and  the  wind 

went  by. 
"More    water,"    said    the    Mate.    "Here, 

Bosun,  try. 

Ask  if  he's  got  a  message.     Hell,  he's  gone ! 
Here,  Dauber,  paints."     He  said,  "It  will 

go  on." 

Not  knowing  his  meaning  rightly,  but  he 

spoke 

With  the  intenseness  of  a  fading  soul 
Whose  share  of  Nature's  fire  turns  to  smoke, 
Whose    hand     on     Nature's     wheel     loses 

control. 
The  eager  faces  glowered  red  like  coal. 


DAUBER  243 

They  glowed,  the  great  storm  glowed,  the 

sails,  the  mast. 
"It  will  go  on,"  he  cried  aloud,  and  passed. 

Those  from  the  yard  came  down  to  tell 

the  tale. 
"He  almost  had  me  off,"  said  Tom.     "He 

slipped. 
There  come  one  hell  of  a  jump-like  from 

the  sail.  .  .  . 
He   clutched   at   me  and   almost  had   me 

pipped. 
He   caught   my   'ris'band,   but   the  oilskin 

ripped.  .  .  . 
It  tore  clean  off.     Look  here.    I  was  near 

gone. 
I  made  a  grab  to  catch  him;  so  did  John. 

"I  caught  his  arm.    My  God  !    I  was  near 
done. 


244  DAUBER 

He  almost  had  me  over;    it  was  near. 
He  hit  the  ropes  and  grabbed  at  every  one." 
"Well,"  said  the  Mate,  "we  cannot  leave 

him  here. 

Run,  Si,  and  get  the  half-deck  table  clear. 
We'll    lay   him    there.     Catch    hold    there, 

you,  and  you, 
He's  dead,  poor  son;  there's  nothing  more 

to  do." 

Night  fell,  and  all  night  long  the  Dauber 

lay 

Covered  upon  the  table;    all  night  long 
The  pitiless  storm  exulted  at  her  prey, 
Huddling  the  waters  with  her  icy  thong. 
But  to  the  covered  shape  she  did  no  wrong. 
He    lay    beneath    the    sailcloth.      Bell    by 

bell 
The   night   wore   through;   the  stars  rose, 

the  stars  fell. 


DAUBER  245 

Blowing  most  pitiless  cold  out  of  clear  sky 
The   wind   roared   all   night   long;  and   all 

night  through 

The  green  seas  on  the  deck  went  washing  by, 
Flooding  the  half-deck ;    bitter  hard  it  blew. 
But  little  of  it  all  the  Dauber  knew- 
The    sopping    bunks,    the    floating    chests, 

the  wet, 
The    darkness,    and    the    misery,    and    the 

sweat. 

He  was  off  duty.    So  it  blew  all  night, 
And  when   the  watches  changed  the  men 

would  come 

Dripping  within  the  door  to  strike  a  light 
And  stare  upon  the  Dauber  lying  dumb, 
And  say,  "He  come  a  cruel  thump,  poor 

chum." 
Or,    "He'd    a-been   a   fine   big   man;"  or, 

"He 

•I  AC     .      .      . 


246  DAUBER 

A  smart  young  seaman  he  was  getting  to 
be." 

Or,  "Damn  it  all,  it's  what  we've  all  to 

face !  .  . 

I  knew  another  fellow  one  time  ..."  then 
Came  a  strange  tale  of  death  in  a  strange 

place 
Out  on  the  sea,  in  ships,  with  wandering 

men. 

In  many  ways  Death  puts  us  into  pen. 
The  reefers  came  down   tired   and   looked 

and  slept. 
Below  the  skylight  little  dribbles  crept 

Along    the    painted    woodwork,    glistening, 

slow, 

Following  the  roll  and  dripping,  never  fast, 
But  dripping  on  the  quiet  form  below, 
Like  passing  time  talking  to  time  long  past. 


DAUBER  247 

And  all  night  long  "Ai,  ai !"  went  the  wind's 

blast, 
And    creaming    water    swished    below    the 

pale, 
Unheeding  body  stretched  beneath  the  sail. 

At  dawn  they  sewed  him  up,  and  at  eight 

bells 
They   bore   him   to   the   gangway,    wading 

deep, 
Through  the  green-clutching,  white-toothed 

water-hells 

That  flung  his  carriers  over  in  their  sweep. 
They  laid  an  old  red  ensign  on  the  heap, 
And  all  hands  stood  bare-headed,  stooping, 

swaying, 
Washed  by  the  sea  while  the  old  man  was 

praying 

Out  of  a  borrowed  prayer-book.    At  a  sign 


248  DAUBER 

They  twitched  the  ensign  back  and  tipped 
the  grating 

A  creamier  bubbling  broke  the  bubbling 
brine. 

The  muffled  figure  tilted  to  the  weight- 
ing; 

It  dwindled  slowly  down,  slowly  gyrating. 

Some  craned  to  see;  it  dimmed,  it  disap- 
peared ; 

The  last  green  milky  bubble  blinked  and 
cleared. 

"Mister,  shake  out  your  reefs,"  the  Cap- 
tain called. 

"Out  topsail  reefs!"  the  Mate  cried;  then 
all  hands 

Hurried,  the  great  sails  shook,  and  all  hands 
hauled, 

Singing  that  desolate  song  of  lonely  lands, 

Of  how  a  lover  came  in  dripping  bands, 


DAUBER  249 

Green  with  the  wet  and  cold,   to  tell  his 

lover 
That  Death  was  in  the  sea,  and  all  was 

over. 

Fair  came  the  falling  wind;  a  seaman  said 
The  Dauber  was  a  Jonah;    once  again 
The  clipper  held  her  course,   showing  red 

lead, 

Shattering   the   sea-tops   into   golden   rain. 
The    waves    bowed    down   before   her   like 

blown  grain; 
Onwards   she    thundered,    on;    her   voyage 

was  short, 
Before  the  tier's  bells  rang  her  into  port. 

Cheerly   they  rang    her   in,   those    beating 

bells, 

The  new-come  beauty  stately  from  the  sea, 
Whitening   the   blue  heave   of   the  drowsy 

swells, 


250  DAUBER 

Treading  the  bubbles  down.    With  three 

times  three 
They  cheered  her  moving  beauty  in,  and 

she 

Came  to  her  berth  so  noble,  so  superb; 
Swayed  like  a  queen,  and  answered  to  the 

curb. 

Then  in  the  sunset's  flush  they  went  aloft, 
And  unbent  sails  in  that  most  lovely  hour, 
When  the  light  gentles  and  the  wind  is  soft, 
And  beauty  hi  the  heart  breaks  like  a  flower. 
Working  aloft  they  saw  the  mountain 

tower, 

Snow  to  the  peak;  they  heard  the  launch- 
men  shout; 

And  bright  along  the  bay  the  lights  came 
out. 

And  then  the  night  fell  dark,  and  all  night 
long 


DAUBER  251 

The  pointed  mountain  pointed  at  the  stars, 
Frozen,  alert,  austere;    the  eagle's  song 
Screamed    from    her    desolate    screes    and 

splintered  scars. 

On  her  intense  crags  where  the  air  is  sparse 
The  stars  looked  down;  their  many  golden 

eyes 
Watched  her  and  burned,  burned  out,  and 

came  to  rise. 

Silent  the  finger  of  the  summit  stood, 
Icy  in  pure,  thin  air,  glittering  with  snows. 
Then  the  sun's  coming  turned  the  peak  to 

blood, 

And  in  the  rest-house  the  muleteers  arose. 
And   all   day   long,    where   only   the   eagle 

goes, 
Stones,  loosened  by  the  sun,  fall ;  the  stones 

falling 
Fill  empty  gorge  on  gorge  with  echoes  calling. 


EXPLANATIONS    OF     SOME    OF    THE     SEA 
TERMS  USED  IN  THE  POEM 

Backstays.  Wire  ropes  which  support  the  masts 
against  lateral  and  after  strains. 

Barney's  bull.  A  figure  in  marine  proverb.  A  jewel 
in  marine  repartee. 

Bells.  Two  bells  (one  forward,  one  aft)  which  are 
struck  every  half-hour  in  a  certain  manner  to 
mark  the  passage  of  the  watches. 

Bitts.  Strong  wooden  structures  (built  round  each 
mast)  upon  which  running  rigging  is  secured. 

Block.    A  sheaved  pulley. 

Boatswain.  A  supernumerary  or  idler,  generally  at- 
tached to  the  mate's  watch,  and  holding  consid- 
erable authority  over  the  crew. 

Bouilli  tin.  Any  tin  that  contains,  or  has  contained, 
preserved  meat. 

Bows.    The  forward  extremity  of  a  ship. 

Brace-blocks.  Pulleys  through  which  the  braces 
travel. 

Braces.  Ropes  by  which  the  yards  are  inclined  for- 
ward or  aft. 

Bumboat  pan.  Soft  bread  sold  by  the  bumboat  man, 
a  kind  of  sea  costermonger  who  trades  with  ships 
in  port. 

Bunt.  Those  cloths  of  a  square  sail  which  are  nearest 
to  the  mast  when  the  sail  is  set.  The  central 
portion  of  a  furled  square  sail.  The  human  ab- 
domen (figuratively). 

252 


DAUBER  253 

Buntlines.     Ropes  which  help  to  confine  square  sails 

to  the  yards  in  the  operation  of  furling. 
Chocks.    Wooden  stands  on  which  the  boats  rest. 
Cleats.    Iron  or  wooden  contrivances  to  which  ropes 

may  be  secured. 
Clew-lines.     Ropes  by  which  the  lower  corners  of 

square  sails  are  lifted. 
Clews.    The  lower  corners  of  square  sails. 
Clipper.    A  title  of  honour  given  to  ships  of  more 

than  usual  speed  and  beauty. 
Coaming.    The  raised  rim  of  a  hatchway;  a  barrier 

at  a  doorway  to  keep  water  from  entering. 
Courses.    The  large  square  sails  set  upon  the  lower 

yards  of  sailing  ships.    The  mizen  course  is  called 

the  "  crojick." 
Cringled.     Fitted  with  iron  rings  or  cringles,  many 

of  which  are  let  into  sails  or  sail-roping  for  various 

purposes. 
Crojick  (or  cross-jack).    A  square  sail  set  upon  the 

lower  yard  of  the  mizen  mast. 
Dungarees.    Thin    blue    or    khaki-coloured    overalls 

made  from  cocoanut  fibre. 
Fairleads.    Rings  of  wood  or  iron  by  means  of  which 

running  rigging  is  led  in  any  direction. 
Fife-rails.    Strong  wooden   shelves   fitted  with  iron 

pins,  to  which  ropes  may  be  secured. 
Fish-hooks.     I.e.,  fingers. 
Foot-ropes.    Ropes  on  which  men  stand  when  working 

aloft. 
Fo'c'sle.    The  cabin  or  cabins  in  which  the  men  are 

berthed.    It  is  usually  an  iron  deck-house  divided 

through  the  middle  into  two  compartments  for 

the  two  watches,  and  fitted  with  wooden  bunks. 


254  DAUBER 

Sometimes  it  is  even  fitted  with  lockers  and  an 
iron  water-tank. 

Foxes.  Strands,  yarns,  or  arrangements  of  yarns  of 
rope. 

Freeing-ports.  Iron  doors  in  the  ship's  side  which 
open  outwards  to  free  the  decks  of  water. 

Frap.    To  wrap  round  with  rope. 

Futtock-shrouds.  Iron  bars  to  which  the  topmast 
rigging  is  secured.  As  they  project  outward  and 
upward  from  the  masts  they  are  difficult  to  clam- 
ber over. 

Galley.    The  ship's  kitchen. 

Gantline  (girtline).  A  rope  used  for  the  sending  of 
sails  up  and  down  from  aloft. 

Gaskets.  Ropes  by  which  the  sails  are  secured  in 
furling. 

Half-deck.  A  cabin  or  apartment  in  which  the  ap- 
prentices are  berthed.  Its  situation  is  usually 
the  ship's  waist ;  but  it  is  sometimes  further  aft, 
and  occasionally  it  is  under  the  poop  or  even  right 
forward  under  the  top-gallant  fo'c'sle. 

Halliards.     Ropes  by  which  sails  are  hoisted. 

Harness-room.  An  office  or  room  from  which  the 
salt  meat  is  issued,  and  in  which  it  is  sometimes 
stored. 

Hawse.    The  bows  or  forward  end  of  a  ship. 

Head.  The  forward  part  of  a  ship.  That  upper 
edge  of  a  square  sail  which  is  attached  to  the  yard. 

House-flag.  The  special  flag  of  the  firm  to  which  a 
ship  belongs. 

Idlers.  The  members  of  the  round-house  mess,  gener- 
ally consisting  of  the  carpenter,  cook,  sailmaker, 
boatswain,  painter,  etc.,  are  known  as  the  idlers. 


DAUBER  255 

Jack  (or  jackstay).  An  iron  bar  (fitted  along  all  yards 
in  sailing  ships)  to  which  the  head  of  a  square 
sail  is  secured  when  bent. 

Kites.     Light  upper  sails. 

Leeches.  The  outer  edges  of  square  sails.  In  furling 
some  square  sails  the  leech  is  dragged  inwards 
till  it  lies  level  with  the  head  upon  the  surface  of 
the  yard.  This  is  done  by  the  first  man  who  gets 
upon  the  yard,  beginning  at  the  weather  side. 

Logship.  A  contrivance  by  which  a  ship's  speed  is 
measured. 

Lower  topsail.  The  second  sail  from  the  deck  on  square 
rigged  masts.  It  is  a  very  strong,  important  sail. 

Marline.  Tarry  line  or  coarse  string  made  of  rope- 
yarns  twisted  together. 

Mate.  The  First  or  Chief  Mate  is  generally  called  the 
Mate. 

Mizen-topmast-head.  The  summit  of  the  second  of 
the  three  or  four  spars  which  make  the  complete 
mizen-mast. 

Mudhooks.     Anchors. 

Pins.  Iron  or  wooden  bars  to  which  running  rigging 
is  secured. 

Pointing.  A  kind  of  neat  plait  with  which  ropes  are 
sometimes  ended  off  or  decorated. 

Poop-break.  The  forward  end  of  the  after  superstruc- 
ture. 

Ratlines.  The  rope  steps  placed  across  the  shrouds 
to  enable  the  seamen  to  go  aloft. 

Reefers.     Apprentices. 

Reef-points.  Ropes  by  which  the  area  of  some  sails 
may  be  reduced  in  the  operation  of  reefing.  Reef- 
points  are  securely  fixed  to  the  sails  fitted  with 


256  DAUBER 

them,  and  when  not  in  use  their  ends  patter  con- 
tinually upon  the  canvas  with  a  gentle  drumming 

noise. 

Reel.    A  part  of  the  machinery  used  with  a  logship. 
Round-house.    A  cabin  (of  all  shapes  except  round) 

in  which  the  idlers  are  berthed. 
Royals.    Light  upper  square  sails;  the  fourth,  fifth, 

or  sixth  sails  from  the  deck  according  to  the  mast's 

rig. 
Sail-room.    A  large  room  or  compartment  in  which 

the  ship's  sails  are  stored. 
"  Sails."    The  sailmaker  is  meant. 
Scuttle-butt.    A  cask  containing  fresh  water. 
Shackles.    Rope  handles  for  a  sea-chest. 
Sheet-blocks.    Iron  blocks,  by  means  of  which  sails 

are  sheeted  home.    In  any  violent  wind  they  beat 

upon  the  mast  with  great  rapidity  and  force. 
Sheets.    Ropes  or   chains  which  extend   the   lower 

corners  of  square  sails  in  the  operation  of  sheeting 

home. 
Shifting  suits  (of  sails).    The  operation  of  removing 

a  ship's  sails,  and  replacing  them  with  others. 
Shrouds.    Wire  ropes  of  great  strength,  which  support 

lateral  strains  on  masts. 
Shroud-screws.    Iron  contrivances  by  which  shrouds 

are  hove  taut. 
Sidelights.    A.sailing  ship  carries  two  of  these  between 

sunset  and  sunrise :  one  green,  to  starboard ;  one 

red,  to  port. 
Sights.    Observations  to  help  in  the  finding  of  a  ship's 

position. 
Skid.    A  wooden  contrivance  on  which  ship's  boats 

rest. 


DA  UBER  257 

Skysails.  The  uppermost  square  sails ;  the  fifth,  sixth, 
or  seventh  sails  from  the  deck  according  to  the 
mast's  rig. 

Slatting.    The  noise  made  by  sails  flogging  in  the  wind. 

Slush.    Grease,  melted  fat. 

South-wester.  A  kind  of  oilskin  hat.  A  gale  from  the 
south-west. 

Spit  brown.    To  chew  tobacco. 

Square  sennit.  A  cunning  plait  which  makes  a  four- 
square bar. 

Staysails.  Fore  and  aft  sails  set  upon  the  stays  be- 
tween the  masts. 

Stow.    To  furl. 

Strop  (the,  putting  on).  A  strop  is  a  grument  or  rope 
ring.  The  two  players  kneel  down  facing  each 
other,  the  strop  is  placed  over  their  heads,  and 
the  men  then  try  to  pull  each  other  over  by  the 
strength  of  their  neck-muscles. 

Swing  ports.  Iron  doors  in  the  ship's  side  which  open 
outwards  to  free  the  decks  from  water. 

Tackle  (pronounced  "  taykel  ").  Blocks,  ropes,  pul- 
leys, etc. 

Take  a  caulk.    To  sleep  upon  the  deck. 

Topsails.  The  second  and  third  sails  from  the  deck 
on  the  masts  of  a  modem  square-rigged  ship  are 
known  as  the  lower  and  upper  topsails. 

Trucks.    The  summits  of  the  masts. 

Upper  topsail.    The  third  square  sail  from  the  deck  on 

the  masts  of  square-rigged  ships. 
Yards.    The  steel  or  wooden  spars  (placed  across  masts) 
from  which  square  sails  are  set. 


BIOGRAPHY 

WHEN  I  am  buried,  all  my  thoughts  and  acts 
Will  be  reduced  to  lists  of  dates  and  facts, 
And   long    before  this    wandering    flesh    is 

rotten 

The  dates  which  made  me  will  be  all  for- 
gotten ; 
And  none  will  know  the  gleam  there  used 

to  be 

About  the  feast  days  freshly  kept  by  me, 
But  men  will  call  the  golden  hour  of  bliss 
"About  this  time,"  or  " shortly  after  this." 

Men  do  not  heed  the  rungs  by  which  men 

climb 
Those  glittering  steps,  those  milestones  upon 

Time, 

258 


BIOGRAPHY  259 

Those    tombstones    of    dead    selves,    those 

hours  of  birth, 

Those  moments  of  the  soul  in  years  of  earth 
They  mark  the  height  achieved,  the  main 

result, 

The  power  of  freedom  in  the  perished  cult, 
The  power  of  boredom  hi  the  dead  man's 

deeds, 
Not  the  bright  moments  of  the  sprinkled 


By  many  waters  and  on  many  ways 

I  have  known  golden  instants  and  bright 

days; 

The  day  on  which,  beneath  an  arching  sail, 
I  saw  the  Cordilleras  and  gave  hail; 
The  summer  day  on  which  in  heart's  delight 
I  saw  the  Swansea  Mumbles  bursting  white, 
The  glittering  day  when  all  the  waves  wore 


260  BIOGRAPHY 

And  the  ship  Wanderer  came  with  sails  in 

rags; 

That  curlew-calling  time  in  Irish  dusk 
When  life  became  more  splendid  than  its 

husk, 

When  the  rent  chapel  on  the  brae  at  Slains 
Shone    with    a    doorway    opening    beyond 

brains ; 

The  dawn  when,  with  a  brace-block's  creak- 
ing cry, 

Out  of  the  mist  a  little  barque  slipped  by, 
Spilling  the  mist  with  changing  gleams  of 

red, 
Then  gone,  with  one  raised  hand  and  one 

turned  head; 
The  howling  evening  when  the  spindrift's 

mists 

Broke  to  display  the  four  Evangelists, 
Snow-capped,    divinely   granite,    lashed   by 

breakers, 


BIOGRAPHY  261 

Wind-beaten   bones    of    long   since    buried 

acres; 

The  night  alone  near  water  when  I  heard 
All  the  sea's  spirit  spoken  by  a  bird; 
The  English  dusk  when  I  beheld  once  more 
(With  eyes  so  changed)  the  ship,  the  citied 

shore, 
The  lines  of  masts,  the  streets  so  cheerly 

trod 
(In  happier  seasons)    and   gave   thanks  to 

God. 
All  had  their  beauty,  their  bright  moments' 

gift, 
Their   something    caught   from   Time,    the 

ever-swift. 

All  of  those  gleams  were  golden ;   but  life's 

hands 
Have  given  more  constant  gifts  in  changing 

lands, 


262  BIOGRAPHY 

And  when  I  count  those  gifts,  I  think  them 

such 
As  no  man's  bounty  could  have  bettered 

much: 
The  gift   of    country    life,    near    hills   and 

woods 

Where  happy  waters  sing  in  solitudes, 
The  gift  of  being  near  ships,  of  seeing  each 

day 
A    city  of    ships  with    great    ships    under 

weigh, 
The  great  street  paved  with  water,   filled 

with  shipping, 
And  all  the  world's  flags  flying  and  seagulls 

dipping. 

Yet  when  I  am  dust  my  penman  may  not 

know 
Those  water-trampling  ships    which   made 

me  glow, 


BIOGRAPHY  263 

But    think    my  wonder    mad   and   fail   to 
find 

Their  glory,  even  dimly,  from  my  mind, 

And  yet  they  made  me: 

not  alone  the  ships 

But  men  hard-palmed  from  tallying-on  to 
whips, 

The    two    close    friends    of    nearly    twenty 
years, 

Sea-followers    both,    sea-wrestlers   and   sea- 
peers, 

Whose  feet  with  mine  wore  many  a  bolt- 
head  bright 

Treading  the  decks  beneath  the  riding  light. 

Yet  death  will  make  that  warmth  of  friend- 
ship cold 

And  who'll  know  what  one  said  and  what 
one  told 

Our    hearts'    communion    and    the    broken 
spells 


264  BIOGRAPHY 

When  the  loud  call  blew  at  the  strike  of 

bells? 

No  one,  I  know,  yet  let  me  be  believed 
A  soul  entirely  known  is  life  achieved. 

Years  blank  with  hardship  never  speak  a 

word 

Live  in  the  soul  to  make  the  being  stirred, 
Towns  can  be  prisons  where  the  spirit  dulls 
Away  from  mates  and  ocean-wandering  hulls, 
Away  from  all  bright  water  and  great  hills 
And  sheep-walks  where  the  curlews  cry  their 

fills, 
Away  in  towns,  where  eyes  have  nought  to 

see 

But  dead  museums  and  miles  of  misery 
And  floating  life  unrooted  from  man's  need 
And   miles    of   fish-hooks   baited   to    catch 

greed 
And  life  made  wretched  out  of  human  ken 


BIOGRAPHY  265 

And  miles  of  shopping  women  served  by  men. 
So,  if  the  penman  sums  my  London  days 
Let  him  but  say  that  there  were  holy  ways, 
Dull  Bloomsbury  streets  of  dull  brick  man- 
sions old 
With  stinking  doors  where  women  stood  to 

scold 
And  drunken  waits  at  Christmas  with  their 

horn 
Droning  the  news,  hi  snow,  that  Christ  was 

born; 
And  windy  gas  lamps  and  the  wet  roads 

shining 

And  that  old  carol  of  the  midnight  whining, 
And  that  old  room  (above  the  noisy  slum) 
Where  there  was  wine  and  fire  and   talk 

with  some 

Under  strange  pictures  of  the  wakened  soul 
To  whom  this  earth  was  but  a  burnt-out 

coal. 


266  BIOGRAPHY 

0  Time,  bring  back  those  midnights  and 
those  friends, 

Those  glittering  moments  that  a  spirit  lends 

That  all  may  be  imagined  from  the  flash 

The  cloud-hid  god-game  through  the  light- 
ning gash 

Those  hours  of  stricken  sparks  from  which 
men  took 

Light  to  send  out  to  men  in  song  or 
book. 

Those  friends  who  heard  St.  Pancras'  bells 
strike  two 

Yet  stayed  until  the  barber's  cockerel  crew. 

Talking  of  noble  styles,  the  Frenchman's 
best, 

The  thought  beyond  great  poets  not  ex- 
pressed, 

The  glory  of  mood  where  human  frailty 
failed, 

The  forts  of  human  light  not  yet  assailed, 


BIOGRAPHY  267 

Till  the  dim  room  had  mind  and  seemed  to 

brood 

Binding  our  wills  to  mental  brotherhood, 
Till  we  became  a  college,  and  each  night 
Was  discipline  and  manhood  and  delight, 
Till  our  farewells  and  winding  down  the 

stairs 
At  each  grey  dawn  had  meaning  that  Time 

spares, 
That  we,  so  linked,  should  roam  the  whole 

world  round 
Teaching  the  ways  our  brooding  minds  had 

found 
Making   that  room  our   Chapter,   our  one 

mind 
Where  all  that  this  world  soiled  should  be 

refined. 

Often  at  night  I  tread  those  streets  again 
And  see  the  alley  glimmering  in  the  rain, 


268  BIOGRAPHY 

Yet  now  I  miss  that  sign  of  earlier  tramps 
A  house  with  shadows  of  plane-boughs  under 

lamps, 

The  secret  house  where  once  a  beggar  stood 
Trembling  and  blind  to  show  his  woe  for 

food. 
And  now  I  miss  that  friend  who  used  to 

walk 
Home  to  my  lodgings  with  me,   deep   in 

talk, 
Wearing    the    last    of    night    out    in    still 

streets 
Trodden    by   us    and    policemen    on    their 

beats 

And  cats,  but  else  deserted ;   now  I  miss 
That  lively  mind  and  guttural  laugh  of  his 
And  that  strange  way  he  had  of  making 

gleam, 
Like  something  real,   the  art   we  used   to 

dream. 


BIOGRAPHY  269 

London  has  been  my  prison ;  but  my  books 
Hills  and  great  waters,  labouring  men   and 

brooks, 
Ships  and  deep  friendships  and  remembered 

days 

Which  even  now  set  all  my  mind  ablaze 
As  that  June  day  when,  hi  the  red  bricks' 

chinks 
I    saw   the   old   Roman   ruins   white   with 

pinks 

And  felt  the  hillside  haunted  even  then 
By  not  dead  memory  of  the  Roman  men. 
And  felt  the  hillside  thronged  by  souls  un- 
seen 

Who  knew  the  interest  in  me  and  were  keen\, 
That    man    alive    should    understand    man  | 

dead 

So  many  centuries  since  the  blood  was  shed. 
And  quickened  with  strange  hush  because 
this  comer 


270  BIOGRAPHY 

Sensed    a    strange    soul    alive    behind    the 

summer. 

That  other  day  on  Ercall  when  the  stones 
Were  sunbleached  white,  like  long  unburied 

bones, 
While  the  bees  droned  and  all  the  air  was 

sweet 

From  honey  buried  underneath  my  feet, 
Honey  of  purple  heather  and  white  clover 
Sealed   in   its   gummy   bags   till   summer's 

over. 

Then  other  days  by  water,  by  bright  sea, 
Clear  as  clean  glass  and  my  bright  friend 

with  me, 
The  cove  clean  bottomed  where  we  saw  the 

brown 
Red   spotted   plaice   go   skimming   six   feet 

down 
And    saw   the    long   fronds   waving,   white 

with  shells, 


BIOGRAPHY  271 

Waving,  unfolding,  drooping,  to  the  swells; 
That  sadder  day  when  we  beheld  the  great 
And  terrible  beauty  of  a  Lammas  spate 
Roaring    white-mouthed    in    all    the    great 

cliff's  gaps 

Headlong,  tree-tumbling  fury  of  collapse, 
While  drenching  clouds  drove  by  and  every 

sense 

Was  water  roaring  or  rushing  or  hi  offence, 
And    mountain    sheep    stood    huddled    and 

blown  gaps  gleamed 
Where   torn   white   hair   of   torrents   shook 

and  streamed. 

That  sadder  day  when  we  beheld  again 
A  spate  going  down  in  sunshine  after  rain, 
When    the    blue    reach    of    water    leaping 

bright 
Was   one   long   ripple   and   clatter,    flecked 

with  white. 
And  that  far  day,  that  never  blotted  page 


272  BIOGRAPHY 

When  youth  was  bright  like  flowers  about 

old  age 

Fair  generations  bringing  thanks  for  life 
To  that  old  kindly  man  and  trembling  wife 
After  their  sixty  years :   Time  never  made 
A  better  beauty  since  the  Earth  was  laid 
Than  that  thanksgiving  given  to  grey  hair 
For   the   great   gift   of   life   which   brought 

them  there. 

Days  of  endeavour  have  been  good:    the 

days 

Racing  hi  cutters  for  the  comrade's  praise, 
The  day  they  led  my  cutter  at  the  turn 
Yet  could  not  keep  the  lead  and  dropped 

astern, 
The  moment  in  the  spurt  when  both  boats' 

oars 
Dipped  in  each  other's  wash  and  throata 

grew  hoarse 


BIOGRAPHY  273 

And  teeth  ground  into  teeth  and  both 
strokes  quickened 

Lashing  the  sea,  and  gasps  came,  and  hearts 
sickened 

And  coxswains  damned  us,  dancing,  banking 
stroke, 

To  put  our  weights  on,  though  our  hearts 
were  broke 

And  both  boats  seemed  to  stick  and  sea 
seemed  glue, 

The  tide  a  mill  race  we  were  struggling 
through 

And  every  quick  recover  gave  us  squints 

Of  them  still  there,  and  oar  tossed  water- 
glints 

And  cheering  came,  our  friends,  our  foemen 
cheering, 

A  long,  wild,  rallying  murmur  on  the  hear- 
ing— 

"Port  Fore!"  and  "Starboard  Fore!" 
"Port  Fore."  "Port  Fore." 


274  BIOGRAPHY 

"Up  with  her,  Starboard,"  and  at  that  each 

oar 
Lightened,  though  arms  were  bursting,  and 

eyes  shut 

And  the  oak  stretchers  grunted  in  the  strut 
And  the  curse  quickened  from  the  cox,  our 

bows 
Crashed,  and  drove  talking  water,  we  made 

vows 

Chastity  vows  and  temperance ;  in  our  pain 
We  numbered  things  we'd  never  eat  again 
If  we  could  only  win ;   then  came  the  yell 
" Starboard,"    "Port    Fore,"    and    then    a 

beaten  bell 
Rung    as    for    fire    to    cheer    us.    "Now." 

Oars  bent 
Soul  took  the  looms  now  body's  bolt  was 

spent, 
"Damn    it,    come    on    now,"    "On    now," 

"On  now,"  "Starboard." 


BIOGRAPHY  275 

"Port  Fore."   '"Up  with  her,  Port";   each 

cutter  harboured 
Ten  eye-shut  painsick  stragglers,   "Heave, 

oh,  heave," 
Catcalls    waked    echoes    like    a    shrieking 

sheave. 
"Heave,"    and   I    saw  a  back,  then    two. 

"Port  Fore." 

"Starboard."    "Come  on."    I  saw  the  mid- 
ship oar 

And  knew  we  had  done  them.    "Port  Fore." 
"Starboard."    "Now." 
I  saw  bright  water  spurting  at  then-  bow 
Their  cox'  full  face  an  instant.    They  were 

done. 
The  watchers'  cheering  almost  drowned  the 

gun. 
We  had  hardly  strength  to  toss  our  oars; 

our  cry 
Cheering  the  losing  cutter  was  a  sigh. 


276  BIOGEAPHY 

Other  bright  days  of  action  have  seemed 

great: 

Wild  days  in  a  pampero  off  the  Plate ; 
Good  swimming  days,  at  Hog  Back  or  the 

Coves 
Which   the  young  gannet   and   £he  corbie 

loves ; 
Surf-swimming    between    rollers,     catching 

breath 
Between  the  advancing  grave  and  breaking 

death, 

Then  shooting  up  into  the  sunbright  smooth 
To  watch  the  advancing  roller  bare  her  tooth, 
And  days  of  labour  also,  loading,  hauling ; 
Long  days  at  winch  or  capstan,   heaving, 

pawling; 
The  days  with  oxen,  dragging  stone  from 

blasting, 
And   dusty   days   in   mills,   and   hot   days 

masting. 


BIOGRAPHY  277 

Trucking  on  dust-dry  deckings  smooth  like 

ice, 

And  hunts  in  mighty  wool-racks  after  mice ; 
Mornings  with  buckwheat  when  the  fields 

did  blanch 
With  White  Leghorns  come  from  the  chicken 

ranch. 

Days  near  the  spring  upon  the  sunburnt  hill, 
Plying  the  maul  or  gripping  tight  the  drill. 
Delights  of  work  most  real,  delights  that 

change 
The    headache    life    of    towns    to    rapture 

strange 
Not   known  by   townsmen,   nor  imagined; 

health 

That  puts  new  glory  upon  mental  wealth 
And  makes  the  poor  man  rich. 

But  that  ends,  too, 
Health  with  its  thoughts  of  life;    and  that 

bright  view 


278  BIOGRAPHY 

That  sunny  landscape  from  life's  peak,  that 

glory, 
/ 

And  all  a  glad  man's  comments  on  life's 

story 

And  thoughts  of  marvellous  towns  and  liv- 
ing men 

And  what  pens  tell  and  all  beyond  the  pen 
End,   and  are  summed  in  words  so   truly 

dead 

They  raise  no  image  of  the  heart  and  head, 
The  life,  the  man  alive,  the  friend  we  knew, 
The  mind  ours  argued  with  or  listened  to, 
None ;  but  are  dead,  and  all  life's  keenness, 

all, 

Is  dead  as  print  before  the  funeral, 
Even    deader    after,    when    the    dates    are 

sought, 
And    cold    minds    disagree    with    what    we 

thought. 
This  many  pictured  world  of  many  passions 


BIOGRAPHY  279 

Wears  out  the  nations  as  a  woman  fashions, 
And  what  life  is  is  much  to  very  few, 
Men  being  so  strange,  so  mad,  and  what 

men  do 
So  good  to  watch  or  share;   but  when  men 

count 
Those  hours  of  life  that  were  a  bursting 

fount, 
Sparkling    the    dusty    heart    with    living 

springs, 
There  seems  a  world,  beyond  our  earthly 

things, 
Gated    by    golden    moments,    each    bright 

tune 

Opening  to  show  the  city  white  like  lime, 
High    towered    and    many    peopled.    This 

made  sure, 
Work  that  obscures  those  moments  seems 

impure, 
Making  our  not-returning  time  of  breath 


280  BIOGRAPHY 

Dull  with  the  ritual  and  records  of  death, 
That  frost  of  fact  by  which  our  wisdom 

gives 
Correctly  stated  death  to  all  that  lives.  - 

Best  trust  the  happy  moments.    What  they 

gave 

Makes  man  less  fearful  of  the  certain  grave, 
And  gives  his  work  compassion   and  new 

eyes. 
The  days  that  make  us  happy  make  us  wise. 


CARGOES 

QUINQUIREME    of    Nineveh    from    distant 

Ophir, 
Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny  Palestine, 

With  a  cargo  of  ivory, 
And  apes  and  peacocks, 
Sandalwood,    cedarwood,    and   sweet   white 
wine. 

Stately   Spanish   galleon   coming   from   the 

Isthmus, 
Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palm- 

green  shores, 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 
Emeralds,  amethysts, 
Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores. 

281 


282  CARGOES 

Dirty    British    coaster    with    a  salt-caked 

smoke  stack, 
Butting  through  the    Channel  in  the  mad 

March  days, 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal, 
Road-rails,  pig-lead, 
Firewood,  iron-ware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 


SEA  FEVER 

I  MUST  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the 

lonely  sea  and  the  sky, 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to 

steer  her  by; 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song 

and  the  white  sail's  shaking, 
And  a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face,  and  a 

grey  dawn  breaking, 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the 

call  of  the  running  tide 
Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not 

be  denied; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white 

clouds  flying, 
And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume, 

and  the  sea-gulls  crying. 

283 


284  SEA  FEVER 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the 
vagrant  gypsy  life, 

To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way 
where  the  wind's  like  a  whetted  knife ; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laugh- 
ing fellow-rover, 

And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when 
the  long  trick's  over. 


SPANISH  WATERS 

SPANISH  waters,  Spanish  waters,  you  are 
ringing  in  my  ears, 

Like  a  slow  sweet  piece  of  music  from  the 
grey  forgotten  years; 

Telling  tales,  and  beating  tunes,  and  bring- 
ing weary  thoughts  to  me 

Of  the  sandy  beach  at  Muertos,  where  I 
would  that  I  could  be. 

There's  a  surf  breaks  on  Los  Muertos,  and 

it  never  stops  to  roar, 
And  it's  there  we  came  to  anchor,  and  it's 

there  we  went  ashore, 
Where  the  blue  lagoon  is  silent  amid  snags 

of  rotting  trees, 
Dropping  like  the  clothes  of  corpses  cast  up 

by  the  seas. 

285 


286  SPANISH   WATERS 

We  anchored  at  Los  Muertos  when  the  dip- 
ping sun  was  red, 

We  left  her  half-a-mile  to  sea,  to  west  of 
Nigger  Head; 

And  before  the  mist  was  on  the  Cay,  before 
the  day  was  done, 

We  were  all  ashore  on  Muertos  with  the 
gold  that  we  had  won. 

We  bore  it  through  the  marshes  in  a  half- 
score  battered  chests, 

Sinking,  in  the  sucking  quagmires,  to  the 
sunburn  on  our  breasts, 

Heaving  over  tree-trunks,  gasping,  damning 
at  the  flies  and  heat, 

Longing  for  a  long  drink,  out  of  silver,  in 
the  ship's  cool  lazareet. 

The  moon  came  white  and  ghostly  as  we 
laid  the  treasure  down, 


SPANISH  WATERS  287 

There  was  gear  there'd  make  a  beggannan 

as  rich  as  Lima  Town, 
Copper  charms  and  silver  trinkets  from  the 

chests  of  Spanish  crews, 
Gold  doubloons  and  double  moydores,  louis 

d'ors  and  portagues, 

Clumsy    yellow-metal    earrings    from    the 

Indians  of  Brazil, 
Uncut  emeralds  out  of  Rio,  bezoar  stones 

from  Guayaquil; 
Silver,  in  the  crude  and  fashioned,  pots  of 

old  Arica  bronze, 
Jewels  from  the  bones  of  Incas  desecrated 

by  the  Dons. 

We  smoothed  the  place  with  mattocks,  and 
we  took  and  blazed  the  tree, 

Which  marks  yon  where  the  gear  is  hid  that 
none  will  ever  see, 


288  SPANISH   WATERS 

And  we  laid   aboard   the  ship   again,   and 

south  away  we  steers, 
Through    the    loud    surf    of    Los    Muertos 

which  is  beating  hi  my  ears. 

I'm  the  last  alive  that  knows  it.    All  the 

rest  have  gone  then-  ways 
Killed,  or  died,  or  come  to  anchor  hi  the  old 

Mulatas  Cays, 
And  I  go  singing,  fiddling,  old  and  starved 

and  hi  despair, 
And  I  know  where  all  that  gold  is  hid,  if  I 

were  only  there. 

It's  not  the  way  to  end  it  all.    I'm  old, 

and  nearly  blind, 
And  an  old  man's  past's  a  strange  thing, 

for  it  never  leaves  his  mind. 
And  I  see  in  dreams,  awhiles,  the  beach, 

the  sun's  disc  dipping  red, 


SPANISH  WATERS 

And  the  tall  ship,  under  topsails,  swaying 
in  past  Nigger  Head. 

I'd  be  glad  to  step  ashore  there.    Glad  to 

take  a  pick  and  go 
To  the  lone  blazed  coco-palm  tree  in  the 

place  no  others  know, 
And    lift    the    gold   and   silver    that    has 

mouldered  there  for  years 
By  the  loud  surf  of  Los  Muertos  which  is 

beating  in  my  ears. 


AN  OLD  SONG  RE-SUNG 

I  SAW  a  ship  a-sailing,  a-sailing,  a-sailing, 
With  emeralds  and  rubies  and  sapphires  hi 

her  hold; 
And  a  bosun  in  a  blue  coat  bawling  at  the 

railing, 
Piping  through  a  silver  call  that  had  a  chain 

of  gold; 
The  summer  wind  was  failing  and  the  tall 

ship  rolled. 

I     saw      a     ship      a-steering,      a-steering, 

a-steering, 
With  roses  in  red  thread  worked  upon  her 

sails; 
With  sacks  of  purple  amethysts,  the  spoils 

of  buccaneering, 

290 


AN  OLD  SONG  RE-SUNG  291 

Skins  of  musky  yellow  wine,  and  silks  in 

bales, 
Her  merry  men  were  cheering,  hauling  on 

the  brails. 

I  saw  a  ship  a-sinking,  a-sinking,  a-sinking, 
With  glittering  sea-water  splashing  on  her 

decks, 
With    seamen    hi    her    spirit-room    singing 

songs  and  drinking, 
Pulling  claret  bottles  down,   and  knocking 

off  the  necks, 
The  broken  glass  was  chinking  as  she  sank 

among  the  wrecks. 


THE  WEST  WIND 

IT'S  a  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of 

birds'  cries; 
I  never  hear  the  west  wind  bu,t  tears  are  in 

my  eyes. 
For  it  comes  from  the  west  lands,  the  old 

brown  hills, 
And  April's  in  the  west  wind,  and  daffodils. 

It's  a  fine  land,  the  west  land,  for  hearts  as 

tired  as  mine, 
Apple  orchards  blossom  there,  and  the  air's 

like  wine. 
There  is  cool  green  grass  there,  where  men 

may  lie  at  rest, 
And  the  thrushes  are  in  song  there,  fluting 

from  the  nest. 

292 


THE    WEST    WIND  293 

"Will  you  not  come  home,  brother?    You 

have  been  long  away. 
It's  April,  and  blossom  tune,  and  white  is 

the  spray: 
And  bright  is  the  sun,  brother,  and  warm  is 

the  rain, 
Will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  home  to 

us  again? 

The  young  corn  is  green,  brother,  where  the 

rabbits  run; 
It's  blue  sky,  and  white  clouds,  and  warm 

rain  and  sun. 
It's  song  to  a  man's  soul,  brother,  fire  to  a 

man's  brain, 
To  hear  the  wild  bees  and  see  the  merry 

spring  again. 

Larks    are    singing    in    the    west,    brother, 
above  the  green  wheat, 


294  THE    WE8T    WIND 

So  will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  and 

rest  your  tired  feet? 
I've  a  balm  for  bruised  hearts,  brother,  sleep 

for  aching  eyes," 
Says  the  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of 

birds'  cries. 

It's  the  white  road  westwards  is  the  road  I 

must  tread 
To  the  green  grass,  the  cool  grass,  and  rest 

for  heart  and  head, 
To  the  violets  and  the  brown  brooks  and 

the  thrushes'  song 
In  the  fine  land,  the  west  land,  the  land 

where  I  belong. 


ON  MALVERN  HILL 

A  wind  is  brushing  down  the  clover, 
It  sweeps  the  tossing  branches  bare, 

Blowing  the  poising  kestrel  over 
The  crumbling  ramparts  of  the  Caer. 

It  whirls  the  scattered  leaves  before  us 
Along  the  dusty  road  to  home, 

Once  it  awakened  into  chorus 
The  heart-strings  in  the  ranks  of  Rome. 

There  by  the  gusty  coppice  border 
The  shrilling  trumpets  broke  the  halt, 

The  Roman  line,  the  Roman  order, 
Swayed  forwards  to  the  blind  assault. 

Spearman  and  charioteer  and  bowman 

Charged  and  were  scattered  into  spray, 
Savage  and  taciturn  the  Roman 

Hewed  upwards  in  the  Roman  way. 
295 


296  02V  MALVERN  HILL 

There  —  in  the  twilight  —  where  the  cattle 
Are  lowing  home  across  the  fields, 

The  beaten  warriors  left  the  battle 
Dead  on  the  clansmen's  wicker  shields. 

The  leaves  whirl  hi  the  wind's  riot 
Beneath  the  Beacon's  jutting  spur, 

Quiet  are  clan  and  chief,  and  quiet 
Centurion  and  signifer. 


FRAGMENTS 

TROY  TOWN  is  covered  up  with  weeds, 
The  rabbits  and  the  pismires  brood 

On  broken  gold,  and  shards,  and  beads 
Where  Priam's  ancient  palace  stood. 

The  floors  of  many  a  gallant  house 
Are  matted  with  the  roots  of  grass; 

The  glow-worm  and  the  nimble  mouse 
Among  her  ruins  flit  and  pass. 

And  there,  in  orts  of  blackened  bone, 
The  widowed  Trojan  beauties  lie, 

And  Simois  babbles  over  stone 
And  waps  and  gurgles  to  the  sky. 

Once  there  were  merry  days  in  Troy, 
Her  chimneys  smoked  with  cooking  meals, 

The  passing  chariots  did  annoy 
The  sunning  housewives  at  their  wheels. 

297 


298  FRAGMENTS 

And  many  a  lovely  Trojan  maid 
Set  Trojan  lads  to  lovely  things; 

The  game  of  life  was  nobly  played, 
They  played  the  game  like  Queens  and 
Kings. 

So  that,  when  Troy  had  greatly  passed 

In  one  red  roaring  fiery  coal, 
The  courts  the  Grecians  overcast 

Became  a  city  in  the  soul. 

In  some  green  island  of  the  sea, 
Where  now  the  shadowy  coral  grows 

In  pride  and  pomp  and  empery 
The  courts  of  old  Atlantis  rose. 

In  many  a  glittering  house  of  glass 
The  Atlanteans  wandered  there; 

The  paleness  of  their  faces  was 
Like  ivory,  so  pale  they  were. 


FRAGMENTS  299 

And  hushed  they  were,  no  noise  of  words 
In  those  bright  cities  ever  rang; 

Only  their  thoughts,  like  golden  birds, 
About  then*  chambers  thrilled  and  sang. 

They  knew  all  wisdom,  for  they  knew 
The  souls  of  those  Egyptian  Kings 

Who  learned,  in  ancient  Babilu, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  things. 

They  knew  all  beauty  —  when  they  thought 
The  air  chimed  like  a  stricken  lyre, 

The  elemental  birds  were  wrought, 
The  golden  birds  became  a  fire. 

And  straight  to  busy  camps  and  marts 
The  singing  flames  were  swiftly  gone; 

The  trembling  leaves  of  human  hearts 
Hid  boughs  for  them  to  perch  upon. 

And  men  in  desert  places,  men 
Abandoned,  broken,  sick  with  fears, 


300  FRAGMENTS 

Rose  singing,  swung  their  swords  agen, 
And  laughed  and  died  among  the  spears. 

The  green  and  greedy  seas  have  drowned 
That  city's  glittering  walls  and  towers, 

Her  sunken  minarets  are  crowned 
With  red  and  russet  water-flowers. 

In  towers  and  rooms  and  golden  courts 
The  shadowy  coral  lifts  her  sprays; 

The  scrawl  hath  gorged  her  broken  orts, 
The  shark  doth  haunt  her  hidden  ways. 

But,  at  the  falling  of  the  tide, 
The  golden  birds  still  sing  and  gleam, 

The  Atlanteans  have  not  died, 

Immortal  things  still  give  us  dream. 

The  dream  that  fires  man's  heart  to  make, 
To  build,  to  do,  to  sing  or  say 

A  beauty  Death  can  never  take, 
An  Adam  from  the  crumbled  clay. 


TEWKESBURY  ROAD 

IT  is  good  to  be  out  on  the  road,  and  going 

one  knows  not  where, 
Going  through  meadow  and  village,  one 

knows  not  whither  nor  why; 
Through  the  grey  light  drift  of  the  dust,  in 

the  keen  cool  rush  of  the  air/ 
Under  the  flying  white  clouds,  and  the 
broad  blue  lift  of  the  sky. 

And  to  halt  at  the  chattering  brook,  in  the 

tall  green  fern  at  the  brink 
Where  the  harebell  grows,  and  the  gorse, 
and  the  foxgloves  purple  and  white; 
Where    the    shy-eyed    delicate    deer    troop 

down  to  the  brook  to  drink 
When  the  stars  are  mellow  and  large  at 
the  coming  on  of  the  night. 

301 


302  TEWKSBURY  SO  AD 

O,  to  feel  the  beat  of  the  rain,  and  the 

homely  smell  of  the  earth, 
Is  a  tune  for  the  blood  to  jig  to,  a  joy 

past  power  of  words; 
And  the  blessed  green  comely  meadows  are 

all  a-ripple  with  mirth 
At  the  noise  of  the  lambs  at  play  and  the 
dear  wild  cry  of  the  birds. 


SONNETS 

Men  are  made  human  by  the  mighty  fall 
The  mighty  passion  led  to,  these  remain. 
The  despot,  at  the  last  assaulted  wall, 
By  long  disaster  is  made  man  again, 
The  faithful  fool  who  follows  the  torn  flag, 
The  woman  marching  by  the  beaten  man, 
Make  with  their  truth  atonement  for  the  brag, 
And  earn  a  pity  for  the  too  proud  plan. 
For  hi  disaster,  in  the  ruined  will, 
In  the  soiled  shreds  of  what  the  brain  con- 
ceived, 

Something  above  the  wreck  is  steady  still, 
Bright  above  all  that  cannot  be  retrieved, 
Grandeur  of  soul,  a  touching  of  the  star 
That  good  days  cover  but  by  which  we  are. 


303 


304  SONNETS 

Ah,  we  are  neither  heaven  nor  earth,  but 

men; 

Something  that  uses  and  despises  both, 
That  takes  its  earth's  contentment  in  the  pen, 
Then  sees  the  world's  injustice  and  is  wroth, 
And  flinging  off  youth's  happy  promise,  flies 
Up  to  some  breach,  despising  earthly  things, 
And,  hi  contempt  of  hell  and  heaven,  dies, 
Rather  than  bear  some  yoke  of  priests  or 

lungs. 
Our  joys  are  not  of  heaven  nor  earth,  but 

man's, 

A  woman's  beauty  or  a  child's  delight, 
The  trembling  blood  when  the  discoverer 

scans 

The  sought-for  world,  the  guessed-at  satellite ; 
The  ringing  scene,  the  stone  at  point  to  blush 
For  unborn  men  to  look  at  and  say  "Hush." 


SONNETS  305 

They  took  the  bloody  body  from  the  cross, 
They  laid  it  in  its  niche  and  rolled  the  stone. 
One  said,  " Our  blessed  Master,"  one  "His  loss 
Ends  us  companions,  we  are  left  alone." 
And  one,  "I  thought  that  Pilate  would  acquit 
Right  to  the  last;"  and  one,  "The  sergeant 

took 

The  trenching  mall  and  drove  the  nails  with  it . " 
One  who  was  weeping  went  apart  and  shook. 
Then  one,  "He  promised  that  in  three  short 

days 

He  would  return,  oh  God ;  but  He  is  dead." 
And  one,  "What  was  it  that  He  meant  to 

raise? 
The  Temple?    No?    What  was  it  that  He 

said? 
He  said  that  He  would  build?    That  He 

would  rise?" 

"No,"  answered  one,  "but  come  from  Para- 
dise. 


306  SONNETS 


"Come  to  us  fiery  with  the  saints  of  God 
To  judge  the  world  and  take  His  power  and 

reign." 

Then  one.  "This  was  the  very  road  we  trod 
That  April  day,  would  it  could  come  again ; 
The  day  they  flung  the  flowers."  "Let  be," 

said  one, 

"He  was  a  lovely  soul,  but  what  He  meant 
Passes  our  wit,  for  none  among  us,  none, 
Had  brains  enough  to  fathom  His  intent. 
His  mother  did  not,  nor  could  one  of  us, 
But  while  He  spoke  I  felt  I  understood." 
And  one,  "He  knew  that  it  would  finish  thus. 
Let  His  thought  be,  I  know  that  He  was  good. 
There  is  the  orchard,  see,  the  very  same 
Where  we  were  sleeping  when  the  soldiers 


80NNET8  307 

So  from  the  cruel  cross  they  buried  God ; 

So,  in  their  desolation,  as  they  went 

They  dug  him  deeper  with  each  step  they 

trod, 
Their  lightless  minds  distorting  what  He 

meant. 

Lamenting  Hun,  their  leader,  who  had  died, 
They  heaped  the  stones,  they  rolled  the  heavy 

door; 

They  said,  "Our  glory  has  been  crucified, 
Unless  He  rise  our  glory  will  be  o'er." 
While  in  the  grave  the  spirit  left  the  corpse 
Broken  by  torture,  slowly,  line  by  line, 
And  saw  the  dawn  come  on  the  eastern 

thorpes, 

And  shook  his  wings  and  sang  in  the  divine, 
Crying  "I  told  the  truth,  even  unto  death, 
Though  I  was  earth  and  now  am  only  breath." 


AUGUST  1914 

How  still  this  quiet  cornfield  is  to-night; 

By  an  intenser  glow  the  evening  falls, 
Bringing,  not  darkness,  but  a  deeper  light ; 

Among  the  stocks  a  partridge  covey  calls. 

The  windows  glitter  on  the  distant  hill ; 
Beyond  the  hedge  the  sheep-bells  in  the 

fold 

Stumble  on  sudden  music  and  are  still ; 
The  forlorn  pine  woods  droop  above  the 
wold. 

An  endless  quiet  valley  reaches  out 

Past  the  blue  hills  into  the  evening  sky ; 

Over  the  stubble,  cawing,  goes  a  rout 
Of  rooks  from  harvest,  flagging  as  they  fly. 

So  beautiful  it  is  I  never  saw 
So  great  a  beauty  on  these  English  fields 

308 


AUGUST  1914  309 

Touched  by  the  twilight's  coming  into  awe, 
Ripe  to  the  soul  and  rich  with  summer's 
yields.  .  .  . 

These  homes,  this  valley  spread   below  me 

here, 
The  rooks,  the  tilted  stacks,  the  beasts  in 

pen, 

Have  been  the  heartfelt  things,  past  speak- 
ing dear 
To  unknown  generations  of  dead  men, 

Who,  century  after  century,  held  these  farms 
And,  looking  out  to  watch  the  changing 
sky, 

Heard,  as  we  hear,  the  rumors  and  alarms 
Of  war  at  hand  and  danger  pressing  nigh. 

And  knew,  as  we  know,  that  the  message 

meant 
The  breaking  off  of  ties,  the  loss  of  friends, 


310  AUGUST  1914 

Death,  like  a  miser  getting  in  his  rent, 
And  no  new  stones  laid  where  the  trackway 
ends. 

The  harvest  not  yet  won,  the  empty  bin, 
The  friendly  horses  taken  from  the  stalls, 

The  fallow  on  the  hill  not  yet  brought  in, 
The  cracks  unplastered  in  the  leaking  walls. 

Yet  heard  the  news,  and  went  discouraged 

home, 

And  brooded  by  the  fire  with  heavy  mind, 
With  such   dumb  loving  of  the  Berkshire 

loam 

As  breaks  the  dumb  hearts  of  the  English 
kind, 

Then  sadly  rose  and  left  the  well-loved  Downs, 
And  so  by  ship  to  sea,  and  knew  no  more 

The  fields  of  home,  the  byres,  the  market 

towns, 
Nor  the  dear  outline  of  the  English  shore, 


AUGUST  1914  311 

But  knew  the  misery  of  the  soaking  trench, 
The  freezing  in  the  rigging,  the  despair 

In  the  revolting  second  of  the  wrench 
When  the  blind  soul  is  flung  upon  the  air, 

•  **• 
And  died  (uncouthly,  most)  in  foreign  lands 

For  some  idea  but  dimly  understood 
Of  an  English  city  never  built  by  hands, 
•  .Which  love  of  England  prompted  and  made 
good.  .  .  . 

If  there  be  any  life  beyond  the  grave, 
It  must  be  near  the  men  and  things  we  love, 

Some  power  of  quick  suggestion  how  to  save, 
Touching  the  living  soul  as  from  above. 

An  influence  from  the  Earth  from  those 
dead  hearts 

So  passionate  once,  so  deep,  so  truly  kind, 
That  in  the  living  child  the  spirit  starts, 

Feeling  companioned  still,  not  left  behind. 


312  AUGUST  1914 

Surely  above  these  fields  a  spirit  broods, 
A  sense  of  many  watchers  muttering  near, 

Of  the  lone  Downland  with  the  forlorn  woods 
Loved  to  the  death,  inestimably  dear. 

A  muttering  from  beyond  the  veils  of  Death 
From  long-dead  men,  to  whom  this  quiet 

scene 
Came  among  blinding  tears  with  the  last 

breath, 
The  dying  soldier's  vision  of  his  queen. 

All  the  unspoken  worship  of  those  lives 
Spent  in  forgotten  wars  at  other  calls 
Glimmers  upon  these  fields  where  evening 

drives 

Beauty  like  breath,  so  gently   darkness 
falls. 

Darkness  that  makes  the  meadows  holier 

still, 
The  elm  trees  sadden  in  the  hedge,  a  sigh 


AUGUST  1914  313 

Moves  in  the  beech  clump  on  the  haunted 

hill, 
The  rising  planets  deepen  in  the  sky, 

And  silence  broods  like  spirit  on  the  brae, 
A  glimmering  moon  begins,  the  moonlight 
runs 

Over  the  grasses  of  the  ancient  way 

Rutted  this  morning  by  the  passing  guns. 


Printed  in  the  United  Bute*  of  America. 


/TVHE  following  pages  contain  advertisements 
of  Macmillan  boob  by  the  same  author 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


Salt  Water  Poems  and  Ballads. 

Twelve  full-page  illustrations  in  color,  and  twenty  in  black  and  white. 
By  Charles  Pears.  Price,  $2.00 

A  book  of  permanent  value  by  the  foremost  living  poet,  illus- 
trated in  colors  by  a  widely  known  artist,  selling  at  a  reasonable 
price. 

"The  salt  of  the  sea  is  in  these  jingles;  not  the  mystic  sea  of  the 
older  poets  who  had  an  art,  but  the  hard  sea  that  men  fight,  even 
in  these  days  of  leviathan  liners,  in  stout-timbered  hulls  with 
blocks  to  rattle  and  hemp  for  the  gale  to  whistle  through  and  give 
the  salt-lipped  chantey  man  his  rugged  meters."  —  New  York  Sun. 

"His  verse  has  the  accent  of  old  chanties,  the  rudeness  and  the 
mysticism,  simple  and  matter-of-fact,  of  the  deep-sea  mariner."  — 
New  York  Times. 

"They  have  the  roar  and  dash  and  swing  of  crashing  breakers, 
the  sharp  tang  of  the  salt  sea  air,  and  at  times  they  creak  and 
strain  like  a  stout  clipper  ship  in  the  roaring  forties."  —  Philadel- 
phia North  American. 

"They  have  the  tang  of  salt  spray,  and  the  blue  light  of  corpse 
candles.  Wassail  and  song  echo  through  the  lines,  and  the  spirit  of 
youth  that  finds  interest  and  excitement  in  bad  and  good  alike. 
Their  lyric  quality  is  true.  Reckless  and  daring  they  are  in  spirit." 
—  Baltimore  Sun. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers         64-66  Fifth  Avenue         New  York 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

Captain  Margaret 


Cloth,  $1.35 


Captain  Margaret,  owner  of  the  Broken  Heart,  mild  dreamer  and 
hardy  adventurer  in  one,  is  a  type  of  character  one  does  not 
often  meet  in  fiction,  and  his  troubled  pursuit  of  the  vision  he  is 
always  seeing,  in  Mr.  Masefield's  telling,  is  a  story  such  as  we 
seldom  hear.  From  England  to  Virginia  and  the  Spanish  Main 
with  men  at  arms  between  decks  goes  the  Broken  Heart  following 
her  master's  dream,  and  her  thrilling  voyage  with  its  storms  and 
battles  is  strongly  and  stirringly  told.  When  John  Masefield 
-writes  of  the  sea,  the  sea  lives. 

"Worthy  to  rank  high  among  books  of  its  class.  The  story 
has  quality,  charm,  and  spirited  narrative."  —  Outlook. 


The  Locked  Chest,  and  the 
Sweeps  of  Ninety-Eight 


$'•25 


The  place  of  Mr.  Masefield  as  a  dramatist  has  been  amply 
proved  by  the  plays  which  he  has  published  hitherto  — "  The 
Faithful,"  "  Philip  the  King,"  "  The  Tragedy  of  Pompey,"  among 
others.  In  the  realm  of  the  one-act  play  he  is  seen  to  quite  as 
good  effect  as  in  the  longer  work.  This  volume,  the  first  new 
book  from  Masefield  since  his  American  tour,  ranks  with  his  best. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  Hew  York 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

Lost  Endeavour  $I50 

John  Masefield's  earlier  works  is  now  reprinted.    "  Lost 


equally  exhilarating. 


Gallipoli  $1.35 

i  miniature  epic,  or  saga,  its  eloquent  but  unforced 


Multitude  and  Solitude  |/>jy 

is  is  material  of  the  best  kind  for  a  story  of  adventure  and 


knows  the  Auman  A*arf." 


THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

Publisher.         64-66  Fifth  Avenue         New  York 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

The  Faithful :     A  Tragedy  in  Three  Acts 

Cloth,  $1.25.    Leather,  $1.60 

Mr.  Masefield's  contributions  to  dramatic  literature  are  held 
in  quite  as  high  esteem  by  his  admirers  as  his  narrative  poems.  In 
"The  Faithful,"  his  new  play,  he  is  at  his  best. 

"A  striking  drama  ...  a  notable  work  that  will  meet  with  the 
hearty  appreciation  of  discerning  readers."  —  The  Nation. 

Philip  the  King,  and  Other  Poems 

Cloth,  I2tno,  $1.25.    Leather,  $1.60 

"Mr.  Masefield's  new  poetical  drama  is  a  piece  of  work  such  as 
only  the  author  of  'Nan'  and  'The  Tragedy  of  Pompey'  could 
have  written,  tense  in  situation  and  impressive  in  its  poetry.  .  .  . 
In  addition  to  this  important  play,  the  volume  contains  some  new 
and  powerful  narrative  poems  of  the  sea  —  the  men  who  live  on  it 
and  their  ships.  There  are  also  some  shorter  lyrics  as  well  as  an 
impressive  poem  on  the  present  war  in  Europe  which  expresses, 
perhaps,  better  than  anything  yet  written,  the  true  spirit  of  Eng- 
land in  the  present  struggle." 

"Mr.  Masefield  has  never  done  anything  better  than  these 
poems."  —  Argonaut. 

"The  compelling  strength  of  John  Masefield's  genius  is  revealed 
in  the  memorable  poem,  'August,  1914,'  published  in  his  latest 
volume  of  poetry."  —  Review  of  Reviews. 


THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

Publishers         64-66  Fifth  Avenue         New  York 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

The  Daffodil  Fields 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $/.2j.     Leather,  tt.6o 

"Neither  in  the  design  nor  in  the  telling  did  or  could  'Enoch 
Arden  '  come  near  the  artistic  truth  of  '  The  Daffodil  Fields.'  "  — 
Sir  Quiller-Couch,  Cambridge  University. 

A  Mainsail  Haul 

Cloth,  i2mo,  l/^j.     Leather,  $f.6o 


As  a  sailor  before  the  mast  Masefield  has  traveled  the  world  over. 
Many  of  the  tales  in  this  volume  are  his  own  experiences  written 
with  the  same  dramatic  fidelity  displayed  in  "  Dauber." 


The  Tragedy  of  Pompey 

Cloth,  tamo,  $f  ^5.     Leather,  $1.60 

A  play  such  as  only  the  author  of  "Nan"  could  have  written. 
Tense  in  situation  and  impressive  in  its  poetry  it  conveys  Mast- 
field's  genius  in  the  handling  of  the  dramatic  form. 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  Hew  Tork 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

The  Story  of  a  Round-HoUse, 
and  Other  Poems 

BY  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

New  and  revised  edition,  $1.30.     Leather,  $/.6o 

"  The  story  of  that  rounding  of  the  Horn !  Never  in  prose  has  the  sea  been  so  tremen- 
dously described."  —  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"  A  remarkable  poem  of  the  sea." —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"Vivid  and  thrillingly  realistic."  —  Current  Literature. 

"  A  genuine  sailor  and  a  genuine  poet  are  a  rare  combination ;  they  have  produced  a 
rare  poem  of  the  sea,  which  has  made  Mr.  Maseneld's  position  in  literature  secure  beyond 
the  reach  of  caviling."  —  Everybody's  Magazine. 

•'  Masefield  has  prisoned  in  verse  the  spirit  of  life  at  sea."  —  N.  Y.  Sun. 


The  Everlasting  Mercy  and 
The  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street 

(Awarded  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature's  prize  of  $500) 

New  and  revised  edition,  $1,25.     leather,  $1.60 

"  Mr.  Masefield  comes  like  a  flash  of  light  across  contemporary  English  poetry.  The 
Improbable  has  been  accomplished;  he  has  made  poetry  out  of  the  very  material  that  has 
refused  to  yield  it  for  almost  a  score  of  years."  —  Boston  Evening  Transcript. 

"  Originality,  force,  distinction,  and  deep  knowledge  of  the  human  heart."  —  Chicago 
Record-Herald. 

"  They  are  truly  great  pieces."  —  Kentucky  Post. 

"  A  vigor  and  sincerity  rare  in  modern  English  literature."  —  The  Independent. 

*  John  Masefield  is  the  man  of  the  hour,  and  the  man  of  to-morrow  too,  in  poetry  and 
in  the  play  writing  craft."  —  JOHN  GALSWORTHY. 

"  —  recreates  a  wholly  new  drama  of  existence."  —  WILLIAM  STANLEY  BRAITHWAITE, 
N.  Y.  Times. 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publisher*  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-25m-9,'59(A4772s4)4280 


UCLA-Coltege  Library 

PR  6025  M37A17  1916 


005  725  31 

wretcg 

Crawls      beneath      heav« 

brother's  blood, 
c   days   the   planets  i 

their  s'ylc, 

vhom  all  earth  is  slave 

food. 

ering  man,  within  wh 

hell 

yet  the  seed,  the  spr. 

•nine  corn, 

me  and  Sun  will  cht. 

te  cell 

-een  meadows,  in  tr  < 
•n. 

be  a  dream,  do 
shall  come,  tha 

clay 

-lake   perfect 


College 
Library 


PR 
6025 
M37A] 
1916 


*C«./ry 


i®  it 

001327™  , 


